


The Spring That Was Promised

by myria_chan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Politics, Queens of Westeros, R Plus L Equals J, The Prince That Was Promised, Tumblr: Oh-the-things-we-will-imagine, Tyrion Lannister is a feminist icon, Valonqar Prophecy, Younger More Beautiful Queen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-03-20 20:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18999607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myria_chan/pseuds/myria_chan
Summary: It begins at it should have been: Jon Snow kills the Night King. Daenerys Targaryen liberates the Seven Kingdoms. Tyrion Lannister suggests a progressive alternative on ruling: one that will unleash a change of events that will change the history of Westeros in perpetuity.





	1. The Winds of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> People move on, but not us. :DDD
> 
> Also as a fandom, we deserve better.
> 
> So here is my fix-it fic following the last episode. I won't hide it. I won't sugarcoat it. I'm very disappointed with how it ended. But my love for the characters, cast and crew is greater than the gaping narrative inconsistencies of Season 8.
> 
> This will span about 6 chapters. Each chapter will be named after each book of A Song of Ice and Fire, because I am spiteful and uncreative like that.
> 
> Please be warned that this chapter has sexual content. ;* Because, ya know, how else are we making them babies?
> 
> So enough rumbling. Onwards with the reading!

* * *

* * *

  **Disclaimer** : I do not own Game of Thrones. A Song of Ice and Fire belongs to George RR Martin.

* * *

* * *

Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne, Rightful Queen of the Andals and First Men, Protector of the Realm, the Mother of Dragons, The Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, The Unburnt, The Breaker of Chains sits in the heart of the Great Hall of Winterfell and has never felt more powerless all her life.

_Azor Ahai_

The ancient prophecy rings in her mind like raging bells of war.

Meeting the Red Priestess at Dragonstone, Dany begins to believe that she is the One That Was Promised—the one who will put an end to the Long Night, liberating all men, women and children from the shackles of fate—she who stepped into the fire with blood and stones and emerged with three dragons.

But that is many moons ago.

In this land, the land of her birthright, the land of her heritage, Daenerys is naught but a tool for the Gods devisive ploy, a pawn for their little game. Her gaze drifts from her untouched food to the man who sits broodingly to her right.

Jon Snow

No.

Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne, Rightful King to the Andals and First Men, Protector of the Realm, the Great Uniter of the North, 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, the White Wolf, the Resurrected, the Song of Ice and Fire.

All of these accomplishments; all testaments of who he stands for and who he is meant to become and Jon wants nothing other than the promise of her love, telling her that his success is hers to share, that his sovereign is hers, now and all lifetimes after. Her very existence is stripping him of all that is rightfully his, and he accepts it like a blessing from the heavens.

Briefly, she wonders if she’d hold the same devotion for him.

Her solemn gaze then shifts to meet with Sansa’s.

Out of all the people in room, her most trusted advisors included, the young Lady of Winterfell had been the only one who could guess her thought patterns correctly. Sansa Stark knew her of objectives even before Dany could begin to process them—a she-wolf, all fangs and glory, sniffing through men’s best kept intentions, ready to rip her enemies apart to protect her pack.

Already, her youngest brother slumber in suspend animation after warging with Drogon to save Dany from the Night King, and Sansa can’t even begin to hide her contempt.

 _What now?_ Sansa need not bade; Dany can sense her scorn a mile away.

She grips her goblet tighter and stands to her feet, uniting the crowd in perpetual silence.

“My children,” she speaks in a tone befitting of a mother’s, fashions a smile that betrayed nothing of the ranging tempests of her thoughts, “Heaven smiles down upon the Realm tonight. The North shall sleep peacefully thanks to our brave warriors.”

Wildlings, Northerners, and Dothrakis alike clamored in celebration, raising their cups in salute.

“For the Fallen,” Her voice breaks, and she swallows a lump down, clearing from throat from all the emotions that threatens to bubble from the confines of her heart, “At the expense of our great heroes, we’ve won. I look upon the empty seats of this humble gathering, seats any great victory can never fill. May they be honored for their spirit and valor. May their noble sacrifices be immortalized in songs that sing of spring and the promise of a better future.” Daenerys raises her goblet a little higher. “For the Fallen.”

“ _For the Fallen! For the Fallen! For the Fallen!_ ”

“For the Living,” she beams upon the survivors of her army, battered, bruised and broken but alive nevertheless, and hers to command, “My Children—you who have traveled across the Narrow Sea in aide of my conquest; you who have set aside your differences in service of a higher purpose; you who have bent the knee and lived to tell our tale. It is an honor to be both your Queen and your Mother. For the Living!”

“ _For the Living! For the Living! For the Living_!”

Daenerys lets the celebration boil to a maximum, lets her children partake in the masquerade of celebration, amplifies their joy with a nod to their direction, bells of laughter after laughter, wine raining down on noble men and women like blood and fire in their goblets; before she straightens her spine, tightens her lips.

“But our battle does not end after the Long Night.”

Cold silence enters, chilling its occupants in dreadful anticipation. The eyes that gaze upon her lost their warmth, a resonance of winter and moonless night. Goblets clunk against wooden panels, noble warriors fidget against their seat, murmurs and trepidation resonate in the room like the howls of winter winds, and in the midst of the growing tension, a blushing maid drops a flagon of wine.

Daenerys remains steadfast, her resolve unshaken.

“From Winterfell to Dorne,” she reminds them, “from Lannisport to Qarth, from the Summer Isles to the Jade Sea,” word per word, beat per beat, to the horrified faces of her harried children, meaning to sound as every bit of a tyrant she sworn to destroy, “your brothers, your sisters and their children have suffered too long beneath the wheel.”

As long as the Lion Queen rests upon her chair, her children are not safe.

It is the duty of the mother to remind them of that.

“Will you break the wheel with me?”

A plea.

A desperate cry for help.

The Unsullied are the first to respond to her cause, banging their feet against the cobblestones, soldiers drumming the cadence of a war unsung, a battle yet to be written.

The Dothrakis soon followed, ever faithful to their Khaleesi, blood singing with anticipation of pillage and carnage anew.

The collective South lift their goblets in mocking salute, seeking the makings of a Targaryen Mad Queen in their midst beneath the heartfelt declaration, looks an eyeful at the Hero of the Long Night in high hopes of killing her before she becomes a threat they can no longer control.

The Wildlings stare in perpetual silence. From Jon’s tales, they traveled far and beyond in pursuit of a better life beyond the Wall, and the entirety of South gifts them needless war after needless war. Daenerys will make sure they remain in the North, and will burn down any who dare to oppose otherwise.

And the North…

Ever impassive; does not dignify their Queen with a response. Sansa Stark stares upon her in gaze of unbridled contempt, fists clenched tightly, white in anger; ready to bolt from her seat and strangle her Queen, alliances be damned.

Understandable.

She is a mother, just like Daenerys, and her duty is to protect her children.

Daenerys smiles and breaks the first cog.

“Arise, Sansa Stark,” she proclaims, “Queen in the North.”

Silence settles its way back to the Great Hall, lush, less frigid, less frostbitten, cloaking her children in blankets of surprise and wonder. Women blink back in awe, while men in astonishment—the idea of a woman empowering another in all her authority a foreign concept that has them caught unawares.

“Your Grace,” Sansa’s breathless whisper, her beautiful face etched with childlike wonder, wounded from empty promises, a reminiscence of Daenerys' once youth and aspirations.

“The North has proven itself loyal to the Crown and a true friend of the Throne. It deserves its own sovereign. It deserves its independence. It deserves its own Queen.”

This is her destiny.

Daenerys Targaryen has always been meant to break the wheel by ensuring that the Seven Kingsdoms are no longer enslaved by the Iron Throne. Only a Targaryen can break the chains of power of this war-torn land. Only a Targaryen can cleanse the sins of former dragons with fire and blood.

And no prophecy can take what is rightfully hers.

“Arise, Sansa Stark,” she repeats, never missing a beat, “Queen in the North.”

Clamor erupts in festive upsurge. Smiles decorate the faces of the people. Howls of celebration fill the room, wines from caskets to goblets, and songs to echo for generations. From the far table, Tyrion lifts his cup in salute. Beside her, Varys murmurs his approval.

Jon slips a gloved hand into hers, interlaces their fingers in a warm embrace, eyes brimming with love conquered and anointed.

Yet the dark unbidden feeling does not die down, and the smile she returns is forced at the seams.

* * *

Brienne of Tarth is blissfully drunk and laughing.

Never has he considered using those words in a singular sentence, their concept as uncanny as they are preposterous, but here she is, in all her golden glory, bellowing the most ridiculous of laughs, unadulterated, infectious, as if her childhood is spent in utter misery, and only now is she learning to be happy.

If he can, Jaime will like a recording of her, wants her laughter permanently imprinted in his soul, wants a canvas of the candlelight playing upon the angles of her face in soft decadence.

Tyrion kicks him in the shins, catching his brother staring, a gives a look of pure pity. “Your turn.”

“You’ve never had a woman,” is Jaime’s best bet against the young Podrick Payne.

Brienne winces, glares daggers at Jaime. It’s not exactly the table of conversation fitting a highborn lady regardless of how much she gallops unchaperoned across the plains of the Seven Kingdoms, fights the living and dead, and be knighted beyond tradition, but Jaime will take his chances.

Pod seems like a sensible lad, honor-bounded and strong willed. He seems to be the type who embraced the notion of a pure knight hailing from humble beginnings.

Pod is silent though. Jaime also doesn’t fathom him as the solemn drunk, but here is the lad that can smile a thousand rainbows, looking every bit of an old man horsing the young ones to a sober stupor, which makes it utterly charming as he grins stupidly at Ser Jaime Lannister.

“Drink.”

“No.” Jaime shakes his head in absolute denial.

“Drink,” Tyrion repeats, amiably, eyes dancing with reminiscence on a different life in the capital, back when only thing that mattered is keeping a lion on the throne. “I sent Pod to a brothel with a bag full of gold. Imagine the surprise as he returned and the only thing untouched was the bag full of gold.”

Jaime knits his eyebrows together. “Is that how brothels work?”

“You’ve never been to a brothel, Ser Jaime?” asks Pod, amused more than prying, as if seeing the good old knight for the social disaster that he is.

“Of course I’ve been to a brothel,” Jaime replies instantaneously, almost offended at the implication, “Who do you think fishes Tyrion out of such establishments?”

“But you’ve never used a brothel?”

“I was a member of the Kingsguard,” Jaime finds himself saying, “I had an oath to uphold.”

The merry group of drunken perpetuity burst into full blown laughter. Jaime gripes momentarily, torn between defending his threadbare of honor and smacking their heads for the old soul that he is, before he joins the laughter.

He regards the young squire with a curt nod, and takes a long hard gulp of his cup, pondering over generation gaps and loss of principles. Back in his days, knights will keep their vows of celibacy unto their grave. Jaime hangs his head in bitter defeat, already hating himself for sounding like a self-righteous old fart.

“Pod, it’s your turn.”

Podrick chews on his bottom lip, angles his cup like a weapon. “You didn’t know that Tarth existed until you met Milady Ser.”

“Drink,” Jaime chuckles, shaking his head, “I’m a highborn. We are forced to learn every single bannerman of the bloody continent, along with their house sigils and titles.”

Pod sips in contemplation, silently berating himself for forgetting that he is indeed, seated amongst blue blood and nobles. “Can you name Milady Ser’s father though, titles and all, Ser Jaime?” he presses on.

Jaime falls right into the trap. “Lord Selwyn of House Tarth, Lord of Evenfall Hall, the Evenstar. House sigil is a quarters of crescent moons and starbursts.”

Tyrion kicks him again for the good measure.

Brienne doesn’t seem to be disturbed at how precise his response is, nor how well-informed, already drifting down to memory lane. “Best of Lords and best of Fathers,” she adds, mulling at the bottom of her cup, a small tug lifting the corners of her lips.

Jaime’s eyes gravitate towards their pull, marveling at how the simple act of thoughtful happiness can soften the edges of her hardened mask, can match the captivating allure of her eyes. Her father is notorious for gracing Evenhall with a new woman every year, and yet, in the eyes of his daughter, he is the paragon of perfection. He will like to share a drink with her father someday, Jaime thinks, will like to discuss about practically anything under the sun with a man of esteemed virtue.

He will like to get to know the man who can paint such a beautiful smile on Brienne’s luscious lips.  
Dimly, he wonders how soft and pliant they may be under his; mind reeling with delightful eagerness, pulse rising with the temperature of the candlelit room.

Dear Gods, he’s getting drunk.

Jaime eyes at his brother for help.

“You were betrothed,” Tyrion harps to Brienne in between hiccups, “once.”

She grins haughtily. “Three times. Drink.”

“Three?!” The brothers cry in unison.

Brienne opens her sinfully captivating mouth in protest, but promptly closes them in a bemused smirk. “First one died of pox. The second one canceled the engagement the moment he laid his eyes upon me. The third one, I challenged in a swordfight and broke three of his bones. At that point, my father was convinced that any man who wishes for my hand shall stand in trial by my sword, and calmly pointed me to the direction of the Master of Arms.”

The brothers dare to exchange shifty glances, Pod an amused addition in their midst, before Tyrion raises his goblet to his lips.

Jaime doesn’t really know how to take that all of those in: the fact that Brienne is one of the most sought after heiresses of the lands; the fact that she’s raised by a man who can care less about the opinions of realm for as long as his only daughter is not wed out of ridicule; or the fact that the future resolution of his muddled affections rests solely at his fighting prowess, his golden hand notwithstanding.

Best of Lords and Best of Fathers, indeed.

Jaime refills her cup. “Your turn, my lady.”

“You were married,” Brienne casted a meaningful look at Jaime before continuing to Tyrion, “before Sansa.”

Jaime gifts her a look of utter shock, outwardly unconvinced that Brienne of Tarth, the most honorable woman in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms would dare use a sordid shameful secret to win a drinking game. Technically, her phrasing is vague at best, wine letting her inhibitions run wild, but the fact of the matter is that little truth as a baneful experience in Tyrion’s life, and Jaime regretted divulging it to another soul.

He flashes his little brother an unapologetic grin. “Drink.”

Tyrion honored Jaime a nasty stare, snuffing his nose like an overwrought child. Jaime will not be hearing the end of this, he sure, and prepares for the worst. He turns his attention to the lady knight, mismatch eyes blank mirrors.

“You are in love with my brother.”

Jaime feels a chill run down his spine, doesn't dare to breathe. “That’s a statement,” he whispers, gripping, “about the present.”

Tyrion is passed the point of propriety, ignores his brother all together, concentrates on destroying the jovial atmosphere they so carefully establish, intent of snuffing the light out of Brienne’s eyes. “You never once loved a man, or a woman. Not that you were given a chance.”

“Milord,” Pod’s warning is rendered unheeded, but the intensity of his threat hung like a life sentence above his brother’s head.

Jaime takes one good look at Brienne, a different light caught in her astonishing eyes, as if Tyrion had uncovered her sordid shameless secret, as if she wants him. Jaime blinks; his eyes must be fooling him. He can never begin to hope, never begin to dream; his heart hammers excessively on his chest.

“Please pardon me.” Brienne hastily scrambles out of her seat, and Tormund Giantsbane makes his way into their end of the table.

* * *

At the very least, Sandor Clegane wants her to know he had every intention of protecting her, he had every intention of spiriting her from the vile clutches of King’s Landing. But true to his name, the Hound’s a well-leashed dog of the Lannisters, his training imbedded to the very fabric of his being that following their command has been a second nature.

The Hound is as vile, cruel and useless as the rest of the cunts who tore her apart.

“They broke you,” he says softly, “They broke you real good.”

“I refused,” Sansa admits; defeat the farthest thing that can describe her, the twittering bird spreading her once broken wings, ready to fly, “I refused to be defined by my circumstances. I refused to be defined by their sins.” Her words are a promise on unending plight, of torrents of arctic tempests and snowstorms. “And now I am Queen.”

Sandor has been fooling himself.

Sansa Stark is no little dove. She is a wolf through and through.

* * *

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Arya Stark growls the words like an accusation, and Gendry has never felt more helpless in his life; him—a blacksmith in a forge, manning hammer against steel, in a room full of weapons against a girl half his size and twice his competence.

Oh, he knows what she’s capable of. He has heard how she brought down the ice dragon with his weapon—barely an inconvenience.

Gendry brings the hammer down a little more forcefully than necessary, and with it, his frustrations. “I’m very busy. I have plenty of weapons to furnish and no one to do it for me.”

He needed this. He needed the heat of the furnace, the familiar scent of burning metal and piping hot coals, the weight of the hammer under his callous fingers, the song of steel melding a powerful symphony against the whisper of ashened water.

The forge is his sanctuary, his respite, away from the remainder of the living and their politics; away from dragons, lions, wolves and all in between. He is a smith. He is a maker of weapons.

Gendry will never let himself be used as one.

“I’ll protect you.” Her voice sounds small in his ears, he is almost certain he’s hearing stuff.

He scoffs at her. “Sounds like a proposal, milady.”

“What if it is?” she barks low, foreboding, all set to throttle him with his unsharpened blade.

“You cannot want me!” he roars; Gendry living up to the maxim of his bloodline, the hammer he throws a fancy good distance, missing Arya by a hairsbreadth.

She does not flinch, does not budge. If all else, his little outburst seeming has the little wolf aroused. Gendry watches an unholy life flicker in their depths.

“I think we already established what I can and what I can’t do,” is the last coherent thing he hears. Arya bolts the forge shut.

* * *

Brienne falls for this pitiful excuse of seduction to say the least. Her septa will be very disappointed. No wooing. No courting. Just a maimed man in a drunken haze with a flagon of wine, complaining about the room temperature, who can’t remove his shirt even if his life depended on it, eyes keen on asking her if she wants the same thing.

Brienne wants Jaime Lannister the same way she wants to become a knight—the most reluctant of love stories, not because of who he is but because of who she is, a hulking beast of woman, stubborn to a stupid fault, too scathed to be beautiful.

Brienne has long been ashamed of her body, parts and pieces molded to make absolute no sense. But now, in the eyes of Jaime Lannister, she feels ravishing.

“I’ve never fallen in love with a knight before.”

Brienne trembles. “I’ve never fallen in love with anyone before.”

“Then you have to drink,” his voice is breathless, ghosting over her heated flesh in gusts, “Those are the rules.”

“I told you—”

She gasps as his moist mouth meets hers in a burst of tender rebellion. His hand comes up on its own accord, settles on the expanse of her long neck as his thumb traces an invisible line of tension on her jaw line, firm and steady, fingers whimsical on the tips of her hair, so that when she relaxes, he slips pass her defenses and opens her mouth further for his tongue.

This isn’t a courtly kiss—no, she has had her fair share of those.

This is a lover’s kiss: one meant to taste her, to tame her, to claim her—kisses for misters to their misses, kisses for husbands to their wives.

The taste of sweet fruits and bitter fermentation on her lips, fueled by the heady potency of alcohol in her veins, the scent of musk, sweat and tangible heat, filling her head, tempering her passion, heating her senses.

The bed creaks at their combined weight; Jaime lowers her to the pelts and furs, his arm snakes on the curve of her back, pulling her closer, rubbing the coarse plains of his muscular chest against the sensitive tips of her breasts in delirious friction. Jaime takes advantage of her moans, sinks down, deepening the kiss, exploring the caverns of her mouth for wonders and solace.

There was heat from the fireplace; heat from the bedcovers; heat from him, from his kisses, from his touch, his breath, his eyes; heat from within, igniting her loins, coiling from the depths of her womanhood, escaping in fiery pools and pulses.

Jaime is right.

The room is bloody warm.

He leaves his leisurely conquest to give dutiful attention on the pale column of her neck, marks her with his teeth and lips, the scruff of his beard a tantalizing sensation that leaves her brazen and wanton. Her hands maraud upon the strength of his corded flesh, tracing the lines of bones and sinews, fingers dancing against the wings of his broad shoulders, the length of his spine, the sides of his waist, over his ribcage, splaying her fingers so she can touch most of him as much as possible. His chest is hard and softly furred, and Jaime purrs as she begins exploring his nipples, sinks his teeth where her shoulder meets her neck in a delicate nip.  
He pushes up at arm’s length, seemingly pleased with the marks he dealt, boldly admiring her bare chest.

Her arms winds up covering in automatic response. “They’re flat.”

Jaime grunts, pins one of her arms high above her head, gazes upon her like a beast, starving for a descent meal, taking his fill upon her bared flesh, green eyes blazing with the heat of desire and profound revelation.

Her breasts are small, pale white globes and their pink crests stiffen under his lust-ridden scrutiny. As he noses one pert nipple into crisp attention, she moans and the other puckers prettily at his choice.

The grin he sports is feral at best, soft, sensual, and oh so wholly male, baring his fangs, ready to partake upon the feast upon his disposal, but his eyes—they twinkle like starburst on a darkened night, green eyes glazed with shameless wonder, shining down upon her as if she’s a living miracle.

“I’m sure they’ll fit in my mouth just fine.”

Making true of his word, he lowers his golden head to one straining fount and draws it to his lips.

He attends to her with care, conquering with laze ease, scraping gently with teeth, rousing her to obedience, works its surrendering peak into sweet fervor with his lips and tongue. She gives a long, strangled cry, her free hand reaching for the back his head, arching her back, making her captured breast more vulnerable to the gentle plundering of his mouth. Chuckling, he lets go of his dutiful captive, trailing wildfire with the tip of his tongue to subject its twin with the same burning devotion.

An odd ache begins to take form inside her—something primitive and primal, calling its powerful counterpart for a union as old as time. Mindless, she grabs for his left hand, palms it against the crux of her passion; rubs against the pressure that is threatening to consume her.

He practically growls, suckles in earnest, makes no move other than to follow the involuntarily undulation of her hips. Then, still greedy from the nipple he is attending, Jaime shifts his position, careful not to put his full weight on her, unlaces the strings of her breeches, and asserts mastery over the silken delta at the juncture of her thighs.

“Please,” says a voice so deep, husky with abandon, honeyed with desire, Brienne can scarcely recognize as hers. _“Please.”_

An ancient, tumultuous need arises deep within her, as if her entire being is shapened for a savage inescapable response, causing her breath to quicken, her heart to strike tenaciously against her chest, her mind ceasing to function. She’s transfixed, caught between primal reactions that has nothing to do with reason and sanity.

Brienne is far too beyond the game now, rising and falling from the fevered dance he leads. Time and reason ceases to be as she tumbled upon an abyss where the only sound that matters is the beat of her heart and the scream of his name from her lips.

Gradually her senses return, as does the air in her lungs, as does the light in her vision. Brienne blinks, head still spinning, limbs boneless as if she’s been through a fight, sore, sated and satisfied, mirth bubbling from somewhere inside and taking a life of its own. Presently she feels him grow taut, sees disbelief slip through the cloud of passion and pandemonium.

“You’re a virgin,” Jaime says gruffly, fingers still buried within her.

She nods her head, dumbfounded.

He sucks his breath as if he’s been struck, removing questing hand and lacing her breeches in short order. Jaime wrenches himself away from her, away from the bed, rummages around for his clothes, dons them on.

Brienne sits up slowly, eyes wide. “What are you doing?” her question sounds small even for her ears. He isn’t going to leave her, is he? Reaching, she draws one of the shorter pelts across her shoulders, suddenly feeling cold.

Jaime doesn’t answer her, doesn’t look at her; fiddles for a goblet to have it drop clumsily on the floor. Cursing, he bends down to retrieve the infernal cup only to smack his head against the table edge. He crashes down to the floor in an unceremonious heap, cradling his head.

She bolts out of the bed in a heartbeat, instantly at his side. “Are you quite all right?”

He attempts to move away, as discreet and as glorious as his seduction ploys, but Brienne has stronger hands. She brushes the hair across his temple, sees light bruising, but no cuts, no lasting concussion. He’ll have a nasty purpling come morning, but nothing substantive. Relieved, she presses a light kiss on the small bruise and feels him flinch.

“Jaime?” Her eyes search his. There is no hint of repulsion, no abject mockery. Instead, he appears quite positively stricken.

He averts his gaze, fancies for the pitcher of wine from the table top, eyes forlornly at the forsaken goblet out of reach. Giving up all pretenses, he reaches for the flagon and, thumb against the lid, drinks directly from the rim.

“You’re a virgin.”

“Yes, we’ve established that.” Brienne feels her temper surge. “Is the idea of preserving my virtue really that repulsive?”

“No. No.” He swallows a generous amount of wine, suddenly very bent on getting drunk, putting the flagon down only because he has already consumed the last drop. With nothing to distract him, he settles on her face. Brienne can attest he winces. “Your father would be very proud.”

“My father?” Brienne frowns deeply, doesn’t completely understand what he is getting at. Why should her father be… Oh.

It doesn’t take long for her to put two and two together.

Jaime yelps as she smacks him where his newest injury lay throbbing. “What was that for?”

“Tell me, good ser,” she hisses, resists the urge to grab for her sword, “would you like me to send a raven and ask for my father’s permission? Or better yet, would you allow me to personally sail to Tarth in the morning and ask the noble Lord of Evenfall in your behalf?”

“Don’t you mock me,” he scoffs, meets her steely glare with the indignation before settling on expectation, “Would you, though?”

She smacks his head again for the record.

Honestly. This man—this man who has forsaken his birthright to don the white cloak, same man who has dishonored every vow he ever took by stabbing his sworn king, same man who sired three bastards with his twin sister, same man who pushed an innocent boy out of a tower, same man who threatened a lord paramount with genocide in high hopes of his public surrender—decides this night to be the opportune moment when he venerates her virtue above all.

There will be consequences of this night, that which is certain, consequences he isn’t overtly fond of her sharing. Oathkeeper hangs a golden reminder by the fireplace, the glorified testament of a changed man with renewed principles. For a moment, she is compelled to tear him asunder with the blade. She retrains that, alongside the urge to kiss the tesion away the tightly corded muscles of his neck.

“Then mayhap it’s best that the lion carry his honorable intentions with him out of the door.” 

She draws the pelt closer to her body like a shield, cannot bear to spend another moment being gazed upon by eyes that smoldered with the desire to keep her reputation unbesmirched.

And then Jaime comes to her, lifts her in his arms as if she weighs nothing, staggers a bit to regain his footing, carries her wordlessly back to bed. With one hand, he moves the covers aside, settles her amongst the bedspread and draws the blankets around her.

“Rest,” he plants a kiss on her forehead like some precious child in need of chastising, his lips lingering enough to inhale her scent.

“But—”

“Don’t tempt me,” he begs, harnessing every ounce of control, “I want you. Make no mistake, my lady. I mean to savor every inch of you. But this is hardly the proper time.” Pulling back, he offers her a shaky grin. “I’m hardly the proper person.”

She wishes to convince him otherwise, just as she had convinced him that there is honor to him, the day she convinced him to take Riverrun without bloodshed.

But his logic is unassailable. They live in a world, in a time, far too cold, far too bitter than any winds of winter. Closing her eyes, she caves in and lets him slip out of her room.

* * *

Jon Snow finds solace in the confines of his brother’s chambers.

The young man is centered at the heart of the bed, eyes closed in peaceful slumber, inanimate, immovable, the only indication of life is the metered rise and fall of his chest.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Her voice is as gentle as the moon breeze; Jon lets it pass by him in comforting currents, lets a happiness settle upon his brooding features as her arms rest upon his shoulders. He angles his head so that it rests upon the crook of her shoulder.

“You left me alone in the festivities,” she charges him, fingers absentmindedly going through the dirty locks of his head.

Jon grabs for that hand, plants a kiss on each of her knuckles as an apology. “Forgive me, my Queen. I never did feel I belong to the group.”

Daenerys smiles down at him, tracing the length of his jaw with feather light touches. “We have that in common, then.”

As soon as she says the word, the magic is broken. A secret marriage, a hidden lineage—they taint their love with truth, soiled them with reason, ripped them apart without hesitation. Dany moves away from him, her shoulders hunch, her head low.

“Have you no faith, my Queen?”

For as long as he lives, he vows to never speak a word about his bloodline. Rhaegar Targaryen may have sired him, but he is Lord Eddard Stark’s son. Jon remembers. He knows no father other than the honorable man who carried his sister’s secret to the grave so that an innocent boy may live a life away from the horrors that plague the Iron Throne.

“Always,” she whispers, broken but fervent, “but my enemies are merciless. They will use you against me.”

“They can never destroy you.”

“I fear they will destroy you,” she says quietly, as if the mere thought of turning Jon against her is enough to tear her apart.

Standing on the opposite of the bed, her eyes brimming with unshed sorrow, Jon is taken back to the morning before he rides out of the castle walls to join the Night’s Watch, back in the glorious days when the Three-Eyed Raven is nothing more than a crippled boy of ten summers, and Aegon Targaryen grace the halls as a dignified bastard. Catelyn Stark shares the same muted grief in her eyes that morning, torn between wanting him to leave and never letting him off her sight.

The world seems simple then, shackled by the cruel chains of secrecy and conspiracy.

Now fate has chosen him a player for a game he has no intention of winning, let alone participating.

Jon turns away from her, the sight of her tears unbearable. He doesn’t know how to console her, doesn’t know how to defeat the monsters that afflicts her. On bended knee, takes her frigid hands into his, and pledges before her a thousand times over.

“Let my love be greater than your fears, Dany,” Jon pleads, desperate, weary from the machinations out of their control.

Lacing their fingers together, she brings their joined hands on the slight bump on her stomach. Jon lifts his eyes up in question. Nodding her head, she confirms the worst of their adversaries.

* * *

* * *

 


	2. A Game of Thrones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow the response is overwhelming. I was actually expecting a few notes. Hihi! Thanks, fam! :D Special shout out to everyone who commented and kudoed. I really appreciate the intellectual insights. :*
> 
> This chapter contains:  
> 1\. Cersei-ish?  
> 2\. Gendrya (lil baby's all grown up. :D you have been warned)  
> 3\. An attempt at Tyrion's wit  
> 4\. Politics, politics, politics  
> 5\. An arranged marriage
> 
> Also this chapter is 18 pages long. *am sorry* You might want to hydrate yourself prior to reading. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Still ain’t owning this thing. :D

* * *

* * *

The snow continues to blanket the Northern Lands, reaching as far the coasts of Lannisport, up the mountains of the Eyrie, to the glades of Kingswood, freezing the currents of Trident. The looming threat of the Army of the Dead is gone along with its prophecies fulfilled. Yet as Westeros sleep in eternal tranquility, it awakens each morn to the imposing menace that is the Lioness of the Crownlands.

Queen Cersei sits upon the Iron Throne, shrouded by the gold of her family name and the crimson of her enemies’ blood. Outlived the legend of her husband and father, survived three of her golden children, she remains the celebrated monarch of the Seven Kingdoms, built upon the smoke and ashes of those who dared sully her good name.

The Independence of the North is not but a pittance, a petty excuse of a rebellion by the Targaryen Queen to lay siege upon her dynasty. Noble houses fall to her roar. Faith ceases to irrelevance. In time, the North will remember who holds the gold and who pays its debts.

Queen you shall become, a hollow echo in the empty throne room, until a younger more beautiful queen casts you down and takes all you hold dear.

Her nails dig onto arm of the throne until her knuckles turn white. Prophecies are trifle inconveniences. Men have long fallen upon their intangible fancies. But Cersei Lannister is a woman. She is Queen of Seven Kingdoms. She will rise above the laws that men have constrained her since birth and nothing—no dragons, no foreign invaders, no pack of wolves or long-forgotten prophecies—can take what is she claims, even if she has to burn King’s Landing to the ground.

Eagerly, she awaits her enemies; her claws shall be as sharp and long as her reign.

* * *

Time and pain ceases to exist—meaninglessly abandoned in favor of sweet, addicting gratification.

Arya allows herself to moan, lost in total abandon, sinking her nails for more, hips dancing instinctively to welcome shockwaves of blinding bliss unimaginable. Completion licks in anticipation, teasing with release and promises of instantaneous satisfaction.

She ignores the tempting demand in favor of the indulgence of the present, relishing in the dazzling combination of friction and pleasure. She opens his mouth to breath, only to whimper from the release that is slowly, surely building inside of her. So close. She throws her head back in frustration, breaking rhythm, biting her sounds back in retaliation to the inevitable.

She doesn’t want it to end yet.

Sensing her dilemma, Gendry stops his movements. The indulgent lover that he is, he plants soft kisses on her forehead, temple, mapping the bridge of her nose and cheekbones, finding her lips once, twice, marauding further to the expanse of her neck, sampling the salt and sweat against her skin, kissing the pressure point where her pulse matches the rhythm of his heart. Painting his mark against the skin with lips and tongue, his arms wound their way around Arya’s back; a hand settles on her shoulder, another on the waist; drawing in close and up.

They stay comfortable in this embrace for a long while, soothing their frazzled nerves with deep kisses and gentle caresses. Arya feels the pressure slowly ebb away, to be replaced by nagging impatience. Consciously, she moves her hips and sinks, sighing at that familiar friction. Gendry grunts, caught in the surprise, momentarily freezes.

Intrigued, Arya repeats the action, and delights when she hears that melodious grunt.

“…Good?” she croons, feeling utterly smug.

He kisses her in reply. Arya takes that as a yes, and kisses back. Wrapping her legs tightly around his waist, she starts a slow rhythm, deep and sensual, titillating their excitement in generous increments.

Gendry’s breath hitches, pulling away slightly.

Arya takes this time to study him, mapping blushing trail from the tips of his ears to the expanse of his cheeks, down his neck and muscular torso. The lines of his forehead crease in concentration, jaw set in a tight clench for some semblance of control. Cupping his face on both hands, Arya brings their foreheads together and watches the lights change in his eyes, bluer than blue, glinting with an intoxicating mixture of passion and enjoyment. She feels his shaft swell inside of him, the warm gush his burning desire flowing, and chuckles. He’s close. In response, she tightens her muscles.

Gendry draws his head back, grunts in ecstasy, then plunges in straight to her sweet spot.

Arya grits her teeth, and lets a wail escape, shuddering, when a shockwave of pleasurable impulse enters her bloodstream as gravity sinks his lover’s heated flesh deeper further.

“Tease...” is his half accusation, makes love to her mouth with teeth and tongue; hands roaming, kneading the tension away her back and hips; indulging her with careful, blinding sweetness, then as the tremors quieted, aims for the same spot in calculated precision.

Arya finds that utterly addictive.

“… More,” she chants, increasing movement and speed, hips undulating to a tuneless rhythm, desperate, hungry; surrendering to the demands of her flesh. “Do that again… More…!”

Tenderly, Gendry leans forward and places Arya on her back. Without so much as a kiss, he starts to thrust in harder, faster, deeper. He watches in self-gratification as Arya mewls under him. Hands on either side of her hips, he changes their angle slightly for a deeper penetration. Like a man possessed, he drums a scalding beat; drilling the sweet spot with every grind; ruthless, even as Arya pleads.

One hand travels down and in between her thighs, as warm fingers close over her throbbing flesh. Arya cries out his loudest when those fingers begin to pump. Faster. Driving her insane. Carrying her further still.

She thrusts hips back, defenseless to the demands of aching completion, bodies succumbing to their primal rhythm of pure instincts, captivated by the waves of passion slowly washing all senses and reason.

Arya closes her eyes and screams, climax engulfing, pulling her under until its shatters her mind with ecstasy, sending her body in complete tension that she is practically quivering. Abrupt, numbing weakness spreads soon after; she staggers breath the air back into her deprived lungs; consciousness drifting in pitter-patter heartbeats as she floats back to reality.

Gendry follows soon after, eyes snaps shut, the warmth of his pent up release flooding inside of her, tension leaving his body in a guttural sound. He is, at that moment, picture perfect pleasure in the flesh. Arya commits this image to memory and to heart.

Closing her eyes, she breathes the scent of sensual afterglow as she catches her equally boneless lover in her arms, promises, “Nobody will harm you,” she kisses the high rise of his cheekbones, “not while I’m here. Nothing can harm you.”

* * *

Winter has come and lingered, the rages of battle recede, but the scent of burnt flesh and bones clings to the air like a whisper of remembrance upon fresh snow. Once the festivities have been celebrated, the wine and ale run dry, and the laughter died upon the lips of living, the whimpering symphonies of the aftermath resonate of too many unaccounted deaths, too many slain opportunities, and too little time to cope.

Already a greater war is on the simmer, and his sweet sister is already on the prowl.

“The Crown charges Winterfell and all of its vassals with insurgence for conniving with foreign savages and conspiracy against the Throne. Therefore by royal decree, all trade and transactions shall be suspended until the North remembers to bend its knee to its rightful queen in perpetuity.” Lord Varys throws the parchment of information in the flames.

Tyrion reflects on their accomplishments, the countless men, women and children who have lain their life so that they may see another glimpse of dawn, associates them to the licks of burning flame igniting upon dying embers and dried ink, fleeting and fanciful—a good story to pass on the next generation. But if they let the cold go unnoticed, if they don’t fan the flames quickly, their fire will run out.

“How much do we have?” asks Jon, forehead tight in a furrow.

“Our provisions will last for a half a year, at most,” Sansa replies immediately, gazing upon the map of the continent as if attempting to uncover the secrets of commerce and government stability by boring holes onto territories etched upon papyrus parchment.

“It seems as if whatever I do, my decisions will be merited by disappointments.” Ah… Daenerys can be compassionate, if she tries. It’s the type of diplomacy Tyrion wishes to instill upon their young queen—talking to her vassals in their points of view, less than in hers, to make her less authoritarian, less tyrannical.

Not a Khaleesi but a Queen.

“This has nothing to do with you,” and so the she-wolf barks.

Daenerys holds her hide high, ready to spit fire. “I seem to recall you wish for independence. Now that Winterfell is liberated, now that the threat in the North has been vanquished, you wish to repay me with spite?”

“Your Graces,” Jon’s voice booms in the room like the howls of tempest, “now is not the time.”

If eyes are daggers, Jon will already be knifed beyond recognition. Alas, his former wife has developed a perchance of dismissing her enemies with a calculating stare.

“Forgive me, brother. But I seem to recall that I am Queen in the North,” Sansa waves that infernal title like a weapon, as she should, “or is my title only necessary for as long as I don’t stand against your queen?”

Jon does not even bother hiding his displeasure. Remarkable eyes—Tyrion thinks, unbridled by the confines of societal diplomacy, they brandish the palettes of hurt and betrayal Jon never expects to receive from his family. Tyrion can only imagine.

But alas, his ability of keeping his emotions at bay is quite masterful, if not handy. With a voice gentle enough to carve tranquility out of the pitless depths of disputes, Jon turns his head to Daenerys. “It is in the best interest of the Crown if the Queen heeds wisdom behind the impassioned resistance of the North, considering its present weakened state,” then, with an even softer voice, he sets his gaze upon his sister and advises, almost to the point of begging, “as it is important for the North to maintain all current allegiances.”

Surprised to say the least, the palpable tension recedes to a bubble.

Interesting, Tyrion keeps a close look as the magic unfolds—sees the infamous Jon Snow in a new light. For a man who claims no interest in the game, Jon Snow has proven to be quite the unexpected dark horse, playing under the careful balance of public interest and political insight. He has a keen eye on where loyalty lays, and a strong sentimentality for the good of all. He favors Jon Snow like this, he decides—the blooming resemblance of the late Lord Eddard Stark—reserved, aloof, forever brooding to a stubborn fault, but has enough bravado to step up when Great Houses raise their banners and tear each other limb from limb.

Such a shame a man of such caliber discredits his potential, opting for more mundane pursuits of honor and familial loyalty.

Perhaps it’s all for the best.

The Iron Throne is not an ideal place for the good of heart, after all.

Casting a sideway glance at Varys, the two men share a silent appreciation to whatever miserable God in action for favoring them with this additional voice of reason. Clearing his throat, Tyrion decides now is the opportune moment to join the carnage.

“The Reach,” he supplies, gesturing at the fertile lands on the map, “Queen Daenerys has won Highgarden on the Battle of the Goldroad, and will be able to provide Winterfell with its much needed resources.”

“The Reach and Highgarden are currently in political turmoil following the demise of the Queen of Thorns,” Yohn Royce, the Lord of Runestone, so graciously updated. Tyrion cocks his head to the side in acknowledgement, daring the soaring falcon to throw meat upon starving wolves and dragons. Sure enough, his message is left unheeded and the good lord prattles on, “And with the Dragon Queen yet to announce her castellan, the noble houses of the Reach are currently preoccupied in ripping their precious fertile lands in tatters.”

Tyrion gifts the good lord with least favorable smile, bites his cheek while he’s at it; wise not to smile all too unfavorably, else, another kingdom might find themselves in another political turmoil. “The Vale is fertile. The Eyrie and the Mountains of Moon, impregnable. I’m in full confidence that the Vale of Arryn will continue to support its allies in the North while the Dragon Queen settles the petty disputes that to the South. I hear no sweeter pumpkins grow than that of those raised in the mountains.”

"The Vale of Arryn declares its neutrality in order to spare its people,” Sansa retorts immediately, frost in her mouth.

“Surely we can settle on a compromise?” Tyrion raises an eyebrow, first to his Queen, then to the Lord Royce. “Surely the Vale wouldn’t abandon its allegiances following a dignified victory?”

“Wouldn’t bode well with future allegiances, I say,” Varys adds, head nodding sagely, letting his bite be known, letting his poison seep through the words. “Little birds who twitter aimlessly end up caged or abandoned.”

Lord Yohn Royce remains unperturbed, resolute, implacable to the roars of lions and venom of spiders, “The plight of birds,” he placates the words with esteem and dignity, “is that they always seem small to those who can’t fly.”

Tyrion want to fling the emblems of soaring falcons up his perspicuous ass. Tyrion never really considers the Arryn of Vale, its impenetrable defenses, its strategic importance and its eternal indifference to the concerns of the Seven Kingdoms, or its uncanny ability to ruse divergence in the worst possible times.

Curse them.

He is actually enjoying this impromptu debacle, missing the petty intrigues and incompetency of the higher courts of Westeros. Nothing gives him pure joy than destroying their pompous privileges to the dust.

“Dragons fly,” Tyrion continues in a level headed voice, “Dragons soar higher than any beasts of the heavens. Tell me, Lord Royce, if a dragon swears to take the little birds under its wings, will they croon summer songs in humble humility?”

Lord Royce pauses, shifts on his stance, for a while has them convinced that they’ll consider the offer. But mountains are immovable, and birds are frightful creatures who only pledge their fealty to the winds and sky. Trust little birds to spirit away after feasting upon the crumbs of conquest.

“Perhaps in due time,” he says diplomatically, “when the Dragon Queen has taken her rightful place in the Iron Throne, then the falcons of the mountains will soar with dragons. But as of the moment, the Vale must remain in neutrality, all matters considered.”

Daenerys’ eyes narrow to tiny, dangerous slits. Tyrion swears the fires in the room grow hotter as her temper rises to the occasion. But to her credit, his Queen hangs her head in acquiescence. Or perhaps the credit is due to the man who held her in the palm of his hand.

Quite literally, so.

Tyrion slides an eyeful at that tiny unprecedented gesture. Jon Snow definitely knows how to temper her worst impulses. Frankly, he is tempted to rain down fury if worst comes to worst. Wouldn’t be much of a surprise, Tyrion considers, history permits and all.

Thankfully, Varys chooses this moment to grasp at straws. “The Vale’s impartiality can work in our advantage,” he says with muted conviction, casting emblems upon polished wood, the sigils of noble houses scattering in clutters, “At the very least, with the Eyrie and its formidable army refusing to align to any cause, we neither gain an enemy nor lose an ally.”

“A useless rock,” Tyrion comments unabashedly.

“Aye, as useless as Casterly.” Yohn Royce retorts, to which, Tyrion flinches.

The eunuch dignifies this tiny incursion with a smile, one that reaches his eyes and crinkles at the corners, as he assembles the pieces across the map in neat pile. Tyrion knows that smile. Varys has his favorite pieces where he needs them.

“So,” Varys bodes evenly, “how do we go about assailing the capital?”

“Madness and famine,” Tyrion replies.

A collective gasp is chorused, followed by communal. If Tyrion drops his pin to the ground, he can have sworn it will echo down to the empty chambers of the Winterfell. He beams with victory. Nothing is more rewarding than rendering a privileged, heavily principled group to stillness.

“Lord Varys, an update on the Crown’s allegiances, mayhap?”

Varys bequeaths his friend with bow before unrolling another parchment up his sleeves. “The Crown is losing allies as we speak. Yara Greyjoy has retaken the Iron Islands under her Queen’s name, and the new prince of Dorne pledges his support.”

“Nothing brightens the winter morning than the news of impending political warfare. A bit of history, if I may,” Tyrion ultimately doesn’t wait for them to respond. Talking over people until he has made his point has particularly been a talent he can exploit to best of his abilities. “The Iron Islands has always pressed their claim for independence following Robert Baratheon’s successful overthrow of the Mad King. Meanwhile, the Dornish have only annexed themselves to the Iron Throne by virtue of marriage to the Targaryen conquerors. Tell me, once the news of the Northern Independence reaches their shores, how do you suppose we are to pacify their possible uprisings, previous records of rebellion in utmost consideration?”

The silence stretches to an uncomfortable length. Tyrion waits patiently.

“Liberty,” Missandei articulates in a soft tone.

“Indeed.” Tyrion placates a rueful grin. Trust a slave to understand the significance of freedom in this cruel world. “We will doom the Throne to irrelevance. Kingdoms will not keel over Cersei if they are granted their own sovereignty. For too long, Westeros has spoken of the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Throne until it has become our singular truth. For too long, we believed that there is only one way to lead the kingdoms in prosperity. If we can seat rightful rulers, people who are honorable and just, we can isolate the crownlands and usher the Throne towards a new age. A peaceful age.”

His speech chances upon muted resilience; Tyrion contemplates whether this revelry is rooted on admiration or contempt, nevertheless, savors the sweet taste of his impassioned victory. Until the room bursts into laughter, husky, deep, unadulterated delight muting a portion of the apprehension from its forlorn occupants. Preposterous, their glee bays, nothing but a useless fantasy conceived out of wishful ignorance—he can almost hear them say—the sound of nobles gathered in a room to judge a lowly imp.

“I did mention this plan involves madness,” says Tyrion, not bothering to defend himself, too many memories playing in repeat.

“If they are granted their own sovereignty, Kingdoms will not keel over anyone,” Daenerys burns the last word in the air, smoke arising over cinders of flames, whispers and promises of burning destruction upon their wake.

Tyrion feels the fires seep through the pits of his soul, but ultimately resists the impulse to yield, to give up. “Your Grace—”

“If the people learn what we’ve done for them—” Missandei tries.

“Cersei will not let them believe,” Tyrion cuts her off regrettably. The young scribe may have an aptitude for worldly affairs, but she has yet to know his sweet sister. “Cersei cannot be reasoned with.”

Varys dips his head in acknowledgement. “Already the Crown is gathering civilians inside the walls of King’s Landing and spreading rumors of pillage and mayhem from a certain Targaryen usurper. There are catches of wildfire planted within the sewers of city. A direct attack will nullify all our chances for a peaceful resolution.”

“If we postpone, we will all drive each other mad,” snaps Sansa, “And even if your plan succeeds, it will take a long time before it bears fruit.”

“And by then, our fortresses will be rebuilt, our forgeries replenished, our armies well rested, alliances reestablished,” Tyrion answers back, “Not as if the dead will be rising from their slumber anytime soon or do we have any other impeding chaos needing attention? No. Then—”

“Tyrion,” the last stand—Daenerys Targaryen bids for his undivided attention. “I trust you as my Hand. I trust you with the keys for my ascension, with my dreams of ridding this world from tyranny and cruelty. And your plan is to disintegrate my birthright?”

For a while none of them has spoken.

He understands the hesitation. Hope is a double-edged sword, a quintessential delusion, the source of their great strength and the boon of their destruction. It’s the weapon of choice during the plights and perils of war and conquest, yet under the wicked and irrational, it can devolve into a futile fantasy.

Such is the follies of humanity.

But alas, hope is what made Tyrion travel across the Narrow Sea and back for a chance of a better world. Hope is what made them survive an onslaught of the undead and undying. Hope is his remedy, his drug of choice, and they can pry it from his cold, dead fingers.

“They will be loyal to the one who grant them power,” he begs to assure her, to see the good in the people, to trust in the potential of others, just as he have tried to see the good and the potential in her, “Loyalty will bring you the seven kingdoms, my Queen. Not fire. Not blood. Loyalty.”

Loyalty has won her the East. Granted, she is not above utilizing her dragons in retaliation, but she is also the same woman who had them shackled in the dungeons for allegations of their unruly behavior. She has seen injustice and has watched it burn under her flames—the same woman who pledges to be more than the Mother of Dragons.

It’s time she takes pride in that.

It’s about time she uses that to her advantage.

“I will be known as the Mad Queen,” Daenerys speaks softly, as if she needs to hear the words aloud to have a sense of certainty to their current situation. She grants Tyrion a smile, small, reserved, reminding him of her naiveté and her unbounded trust over his experience and intelligence.

Perhaps there is hope, after all.

A cough—Ser Brienne of Tarth breaks her brand of silence, asks politely for the opportunity to say her piece, raising her hand like a properly groomed highborn. “Beg pardon, my lord,” she speaks in a low tone, a slight quiver on the upper lip, “Suffice your plan works, these are previously warring kingdoms. For as long as there had been kings, there had been killings in his name.”

Tyrion smirks. “Who said anything about kings?”

He allows the implication to settle in the room, buying enough time to load his ammunition. Patience, he counts to ten, patience to quell the storms, patience to drown the howls of wolves, patience to tame dragons and their fire.

“Are you suggesting we erect female monarchs?” Varys follows his line of thought, face a blank mask, voice flat, but the gleam in his eyes—interest is piqued. “You wish empower women to take their claim and make a stand for their queendoms?”

“Aye.” If Tyrion plays his cards right, he might just acquired a valuable ally. “We’ve seen men do their fancy work in building the laughable foundations of this great nation. It’s about time the women are allowed their share of the dirty work.”

“A great council of queens.” Missandei claps, beaming. “Westerosi history details of parleys from the great leaders when the need for consolidation arises. If the leaders will come together as one united council, all with equal powers, all with equal authority, then a greater unity can be achieved without the price of wars and bloodshed.”

“Sounds like a propaganda,” Varys quips, that tiny smile back in his face—ah, the old spider spins his web ‘round and ‘round. “Fortunately, promulgating propagandas is my line of expertise.”

“My Lords,” Lord Royce voice croaks, “what you are suggesting is—”

“Progress,” Tyrion finishes for him, fully understanding where this conversation is heading. Daenerys frowns. Misandei bites her lips. Sansa straightens her back a bit further. Ser Brienne levels him a slight glare. For sure, had Arya Stark been in their presence, she will have honored the good lord from the Vale with a slashing.

“The lords and the noble houses will have a hard time accepting progress," Jon comments without heat.

“We can always contend with a little fire, and a little blood.” Sansa looks suggestively at Daenerys, who in turn, hums in approval.

Tyrion fights to shudder.

Trust women banding together will be the undoing of mankind. But then again, cocks have shat on humanity longer than their history can dare to write, but that is another headache Tyrion will have to worry in aftermath.

Terror beckons.

“Yara Greyjoy for the Iron Islands,” Daenerys starts—their one and only choice. Yara Greyjoy is their chosen successor for the Salt Throne, and her ascension will deal a sizable blow for Cersei and the Iron Fleet. Now if they can just rein their roguish impulses for revving, rowing and raping, progress is at definite hand.

“Dorne,” Varys prompts their attention at the great principality to the South. “As mentioned, the new prince of Dorne pledges his support to your cause but there is catch.” All eyes turn towards the master of spies in inquiry. “Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell has returned to Sunspear.”

The name does not ring a bell of recognition from the participants, which is not quite the bolt from the blue. Few houses of Westeros have been granted the delicate knowledge of the exotic viper.

“She is the eldest daughter of the late Prince Doran Martell and his former consort, Lady Mellario of the Free City of Norvoss. The differences of traditions and customs have left the marriage blissfully estranged and so, Lady Mellario returned to her homeland heavyhearted with the heiress of Dorne in tow. By traditional Dornish customs, the princess is the rightful ruler to Sunspear,” Varys turns his head to their queen. “A cautious similarity you both share, Your Grace.”

Daenerys eyes narrows. “I suppose that is not something that sits well with the nobles and lordships?”

“Indeed,” Varys agrees, “A formidable lady raised from a foreign land unbeholden of any right other than her bloodline is not a palatable qualification for the power hungry, especially if their preferred catalyst for power resides in prince who is not so well-received by the masses. The late Prince Doran might be below proficient, but beloved by his people—a trait he shares with Princess Arianne whose yearly visits to the slums has educated her of the perils of the populace and has won her their loyalty.”

“She sounds quite the character,” Sansa remarks, “We should support her.”

Daenerys concurs, motions for a scribe to come closer, “Send a raven to Dorne. Tell the prince we appreciate his pledge of support and hope that this pledge will extend upon the reign of Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell, Rightful Queen of Sunspear. Tell them we wish them good fortune.”

 _Three down_. Tyrion exhales a lungful he has no prior knowledge he has been holding, wipes the beads of sweat from his hands while he’s at it.

Sansa scathes a hand upon their war-ravaged map, gentle and venerating, castigates upon the large piece that borders the Warden of the South. “What about the Reach?”

Tyrion holds back a long sigh. The Reach is one of their divisive territories, with its abundant lands and bounties, vastly populated and fertile beyond imagination. Its preservation will be critical should they wish to extend this war with the endless winter, and provide the famine part of Tyrion’s plans.

“The Reach has been promised to House Tarly by succession of conquest of the Lannister Army. Lady Talla is the head of House Tarly. She’s—” Varys waves a hand in the air, vaguely grasping at words that elude him, “your opposite.”

Tyrion swallows a snort, most dignifiedly, if he should say. Jon Snow and Lord Yohn Royce exchange horrified expressions. Ser Brienne’s eyebrows shoot so high, they almost touched her hairline, and from the corner of his vision, he swears Sansa’s lips lift in a one-sided smirk.

Daenerys’s face is unreadable. “You make it sound as though that is an insult.”

Varys is most squeamish—Tyrion can tell from the way his jaw tighten, the lackluster sheen of his forehead, beads of sweat reforming despite the defiant lift of chin—suppose a eunuch has audacity to rival his lack of balls. “Nothing personal, Your Grace, merely pointing out a common truth. Lady Talla was raised to believe that women will never hold enough position to be treated as equals by men.”

“But she has been in court with Margaery Tyrell,” announces Sansa, “She has been part of the former’s queen’s ladies-in-waiting, and has adapted the Tyrell’s principle on provisions before warfare.”

“Yes and her lineage with House Flourent could play in her benefit,” Tyrion includes, noting the possibility of Lannister loyalists lobbying against the good-natured Lady of Hornhill should they persuade her for independence. Cersei might try to tear her apart, so the idea of instilling a steward that is both for and against the Crown can potentially lay off some steam from their advocacy. At this point, losing the Reach will be their downfall, and he needs their utmost cooperation in ensuring that they are not on the receiving end of the famine.

“We can always send a dragon,” Tyrion reminds the group.

Jon shakes his head as if reading his mind. “I’m sure Sam can encourage her in our behalf.”

Ser Brienne looks imploringly at Daenerys. “Mayhap sending a few of the Unsullied might also aid with the encouragement, for both military and livelihood purposes, of course.”

Daenerys’ eyes widens at that, trying to absorb much of the articulated amity unbeknownst to a knight of her station. Its introspections such as these that remind Tyrion the newly anointed knight has been born with a silver spoon and has been versed with the matters of the court.

“She will look into that,” says Tyrion, sending a tiny wink at the lady knight, who bestows upon him a heated flush. “Thank you for the recommendation, Ser Brienne.”

“Much appreciated, my lady,” Varys croons, eyes at the lady in question thoughtfully. Tyrion does not like that look. He does not like the Spider spinning his web closer to the honorable lady knight. Now if only Tyrion can figure out hastily what could warrant such scrutiny from the deadly spider…

“That leaves us with the Riverlands, the Westerlands, and the Stormlands,” says Yohn Royce, enjoying the united cringe the group shares.

Down to the three problem children of Westeros, indeed.

“The Riverlands belong to House Tully,” Sansa says without hesitation.

 _Of course._ Tyrion admires Sansa for that, the little trout in her swimming up the currents for recognition. Her mother must have taught her well on matters of family, duty and honor. It’s a commonality they share with the Lannisters, as frightening as it sounds, and the Tullys are as densely populated as the trouts of the Trident.

“Lord Edmure is still Lord Paramount of the Trident,” Tyrion tries to sound as neutral as possible, fondly recalling the lordly trout who can’t even tell the difference between a hook and a worm, “The Tullys are a well-allied family. They have members married off to nobilities in Westeros. If we are to regain the Riverlands back to Tullys, our cause will be viewed in a much more acceptable position from the noble houses.”

“Where exactly is Lord Edmure?” Jon inquires, surprised he dare to ask about the bloodline that despised his entire existence in honor of the late Lady Catelyn Stark.

“At the dungeons of Casterly,” Ser Brienne answers quickly, albeit probably a bit too quickly, all heads snapping into her direction.

“That he is,” Tyrion gives her a knowing smile—careful not to smile all-too knowingly—relishing in another bout of her maidenly flushes. It really is quite easy to tell, contrasting with the blue tint of her armor as his brother fondly notices. “Hopefully,” diverting back to the issue at hand, “once the Ironborn have been granted their independence, we’ll have additional help in reclaiming the Rock, and reestablishing the Riverlands. Securing both kingdoms will harness us complete control over the west of the continent.”

“Wouldn’t reclaiming Casterly Rock a bit of a trouble though?” Varys dejects, “Their houses are fiercely loyal to the lion who sits on the throne.”

“True,” Tyrion confirms, “and a kinslayer allying with a foreign invader doesn’t bode well to our advantage.”

“Then we abandon my uncle?” Sansa half snarls, half wails, her face red as her hair

“I’m suggesting,” Tyrion says slowly, oh so slowly, not at all enthused with the idea of exchanging of public debacle with her, “that postponing our rescue operation for the Riverlands might be our best option. Think about it: the last time we attacked Casterly Rock, we almost paid a dear price of a portion of the Unsullied. Engaging in needless violence is not a luxury we can afford as of the moment. And even if we managed to secure the Westerlands, they will not bow down to our queen.”

Sansa draws a sharp intake of breath, looking every bit of a difficukt child of her age. She’ll eventually have to understand there is virtue in patience. As if to comfort her, Daenerys places a hand on her shoulder. “We will rescue your uncle,” their queen says, meeting eye to eye, “I swear it upon my name.”

She doesn’t wait for Sansa’s retribution, or rebottle, or reply, drops her hand as if it never landed upon the shoulder of the Northern Queen and meters at the last of their predicaments with renewed purpose. “Stormlands,” she traces the remnants of a once powerful dynasty to the east, scattered amongst isles and borders of the Narrow Sea, “If I were to secure safe passage of my army from Essos, I need to secure the Stormlands.”

“Formerly from Baratheons,” Tyrion hangs his head somberly, “Such a shame that noble house is extinct.” Which is half of the truth, in all honesty. It will not fare well with Daenerys if a Baratheon bastard wanders upon their midst, especially sired by one famous usurper.

His little nonchalant musing is rewarded by a shared moment between the Starks—slow, fleeting, like embers whisking bright sparks against the winter winds, just enough to savor moment, to flicker into oblivion. Tyrion feels a shiver crawl under his skin.

“Are the Baratheons extinct?” he implores out loud, directly to the scampering wolves who feign ignorance.

“Jon,” Daenerys searches the truth in her lover’s eyes. Jon refuses to look back, which is enough confirmation on Tyrion’s behalf. Still, justice necessitates evidence, and Tyrion isn’t above using a little intimidation to get his desired results.

“The implication of a possible living Baratheon will be consequential to your claim, Your Grace,” he drills the words, “The Baratheons were the last bloodline to claim the throne. Cersei sits upon that throne by virtue of that claim. Should there be an existing stag prancing about under our noses, then that bastard has more right to the Iron Throne than you or Cersei combined.”

“There are no stags,” Sansa speaks forwardly, shakily, glaring upon her brother with much conviction that can silence a man to secrecy until his death.

Varys seems to have acquired knowledge on their potential enemy, the shifty glances foretelling; but opt to remain in reclusive mystery for partiality to manipulation. “I believe,” he begins, spinning his web of words upon an unlikely prey; the Queen in the North and its Warden within his grasp, “if Queen Sansa and the Lord Snow are to swear upon their word that there are indeed no legitimate stags in Winterfell, then we should, in her Highness’ good graces, take them upon their word. After all,” he continues in a low tone, barely a threat, barely a whisper, “they have yet keep secrets from our Queen.”

Tyrion watches as Jon swallow a mouthful of that warning, dodging to peruse Sansa in equal inquiry. He might need to keep an eye on the North, after all. And he will need to have a word with Varys after this conference. Being on the outside of a grand secrecy is quite alarming.

“There are no stags,” Jon repeats, the tightness of his jaw winding the tension to every syllable.

“Then there are no stags,” Daenerys says dismissively, playing onto the mystery of her lover and his family. Tyrion will have to convince her to drag the secret out of Jon Snow. Too many lives are at stake. “So who’s Lord of Storm’s End now?” she inquires in a high pitched tone.

Everyone eyes at Varys. Of course, Varys is to know who holds power beyond the shores of Shipbreaker’s Bay. He seems to be pleased, clearing his throat to hide a bit of the evidence.

“The Evenstar, Your Grace,” Varys answers for them, skims at Lady Brienne briefly before continuing, “Lord Selwyn of House Tarth, Lord of Evenfall, is presiding Lord Paramount of Storm’s End. He was appointed castellan by Lord Renly Baratheon prior to his untimely demise and has ascended as Lord Paramount upon the fall of his brother, Lord Stannis Baratheon, by decree of the noble houses and vassals.”

“Tarth?” Daenerys follows that trail of thought, fixing upon the stoic Knight of the Seven Kingdoms who seem to wish the earth beneath would swallow her whole to be saved from the unwarranted attention.

“Lord Selwyn is my father,” Ser Brienne acknowledges in a meek voice, and, if the slight furrow in her forehead any indication, does not like where this conversation is leading.

Daenerys hums under her breath.

“Your Grace,” she beckons, opens her mouth in silent protest, about to be ready for a counter or a rebuttal. The end reaction is for the venerated Ser Brienne gaping like a fish out of water, her voice drowning in the midst of nonsensical gibberish. Quite adorable, Tyrion thinks, have this particular moment of maidenly modesty belong to a woman half her size and a quarter of her reputation in the battlefield. To one Ser Brienne of Tarth, it’s just unnerving.

Jaime might have swooned, though.

Finally, with enough confidence, she holds her head up high and shakes her head. “No.”

Daenerys holds her back a little straighter. “Are knights not allowed to inherit titles and lands like the Night’s Watch?”

“Not technically forbidden,” Varys responds, points the next of the statement to the Queen in the North, “for as long as the knight is unbeholden of any sacred vows.”

Sansa almost snorts unladylike, rolls her eyes in exasperation. “Lady Brienne is entitled to her decisions. If she wishes to serve her homeland, I would gladly relinquish her from such vows.”

“Then we have everything in order.”

“No,” Ser Brienne appeals; tenacious, determined, like a commander, like a lady in court.

“No?” Daenerys holds back the flares; the heat almost palpable.

For a moment, Tyrion is sorry for Brienne. Scheming, politics, thrones and kings are not particular topics of leisure for one who wields the sword. And following the Baratheon downfall, the Stormlands has enough good chances of living in tranquility as the tumultuous tides of Shipbreaker’s Bay—lords and vassals pledging allegiances after allegiances to princes and kings who die like flies under their watch. Not to mention, the lady knight has been away from the court for too long, and has been the beneficiary of their least favorable receptions of the nobles from what he has heard.

But a higher purpose demands noble sacrifices, and no one in Westeros has known purpose, necessity, nobility and sacrifices than Brienne of Tarth.

“Lord Selwyn is an old man, my lady,” is his brave attempt to use her father against her stubbornness, “and you are his only heir.”

That must have hit a nerve, seeing her twitch under the speculation of leaving her beloved father in political isolation. “The last time I had the opportunity to negotiate with a stormlord, I had to break his bones into submission,” Brienne grits the argument between clenched teeth.

“I expected nothing less.” Tyrion brushes her outward defiance with a lackadaisical smile, grinning from ear to ear. “Storm’s End has been the seat of kings even before Baratheons split the lands into factions. Who else is better qualified to unite what they have torn apart than a lady who was born under their ranks? The Rightful Heir of their Chosen Lord. The first Lady Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. She who Shat on the Hound and Lived to Tell its Tale.”

“Managing a kingdom is vastly different from a swordfight.”

“Which makes it beneficial if we can get a head start on your enthronement while Lord Selwyn is still amongst the living.”

“My lord, I am not a leader. I don’t want anyone following me around, risking their lives on my name—”

“Yet you inspire devotion.”

Taking a careful step, he takes her large hand: heavy, mannish, large, very different from the hands of his queen and his former bride, and yet, very much the same—singular, stories written in cuts and calluses, burdened with a higher calling; squeezes; prays for sincerity.

“Two of the best men I have known dedicated their devotion on you. My squire dedicated his knighthood under your guidance. My brother rode North without an army for a chance to serve under your command. My lady,” Tyrion affirms—he knows this much he can’t fabricate, knows this much is the truth, “you inspire greatness in the weakest. You bring out the best from the worst of men. If not you then who? All the good lords are dead and the rest are monsters.”

Tyrion notices the slight quiver of the lower lip, the unusual tightness of grip upon her sword’s pommel, the way her jaw is rigid, the muscles of her neck corded, eyes downcast, tapered—he’s wringing her up, weighing her down. Just a bit more.

“Perhaps you would like Lady Brienne to think about it?” Sansa eyes at the two—tender upon Ser Brienne, scathing upon his person, warily at the situation at hand. “This subject of thrones and queens, although admittedly valued, is a lot to take especially those who have dedicated their lives in service of others. Brienne is a highborn and a soldier. I trust she will decide wisely in due time.”

Tyrion gives a gentle squeeze on her hand one final moment and promptly let go. Storms rage and cease; tides ebb and flow. With a bit of luck, Sansa Stark might help in the convincing of the lady knight. If not… Well…

Tyrion has another ace up on his sleeves.

Meeting the blank stares before him, he clears his throat. “With that settled, Queen Sansa Stark shall remain as Queen in the North. The Iron Islands shall be granted to House Greyjoy under the ruling of Queen Yara. The Dornish Principality, on the other hand, shall be bestowed to the rightful heir of Sunspear, Lady Arianne Nymeros Martell. The Reach will remain in the custody of the Tarlys, care of Lady Talla of Hornhill. The Vale, the Rock and the Riverlands will remain in neutrality as we await for better chances in solidifying our claims over the lands. Meanwhile, Stormlands is up to the decision of Lady Brienne. Almost four out of seven. Not really bad, not really good either. Now for more pressing matters, about my brother, the Kingslayer…”

* * *

Jaime is man on a mission, hooves on thunder, storming the halls of Winterfell, bystanders wilting discreetly out of sight at his stride and temperament, unwilling to be recipients of his tantrums. A few sniggers greet his impassive demeanor in mocking salute by which rendered timid upon one withering glare. Maimed and captive, Jaime is a Lannister, and he isn’t above using steel and gold to slice and pummel petty insults to smithereens.

The focus of his foul mood however lies heavily guarded by an Unsullied who is unaccustomed to the notoriety his reputation bestows.

“I need to speak with my brother,” he growls in the native tongue, figuring his glare of impending death, doom and destruction will be enough to bridge language barriers and send his message across. If all else fails, he can always resort to the tiny Valyrian his steel can speak on his behalf.

The guardsman stares blankly.

 _Father, grant me strength._ “Look, I don’t know Valyrian. I had a hard time learning my own bloody language to even begin considering to learn another one—one that is not spoken in casual conversations, above all. So if you can’t find a bloody translator—”

“No need for threats,” the guardsman speaks eloquently, snapping his temper shut momentarily, “Unsullied are conversational to your common tongue. Please leave blade here before entering.”

Jaime eyes fixes upon the outstretched hand, and suddenly feels bereft. Unbuckling his belt, he wraps the leather neatly on the sword pommel, careful in handing his precious weapon to the stoic soldier. Without so much ado, the bolts from the heavily lidded door unhinge and Jaime finds himself in the humble study of his once-beloved sibling.

Tyrion does not look up from his missives “I was expecting you.”

“I will kill you where you sit.” He closes the door with a bang, prowls languidly to the chair in front of his brother’s table, memories of similar encounters with an older man from a different study passing through his psyche like a ghost of remembrance. He grimaces from the involuntary shiver that goes along the unpleasant memory. “Are you going to drop that quill or will I be forced to throttle you upside down like we were as children?”

His threat is received with mocking salutation, the corner of his brother’s lips lifts for an impish smile, and Jaime quells the urge to throttle him altogether. Putting the quill down in surrender, Tyrion folds his hands neatly in front of him, the dignified over-indulgent self-absorbed pompous that he is.

“I don’t want you to die,” Tyrion’s opening remark, carries on with the customary Lannister signature of using bloodlines and familial loyalty to achieve what he wants, where he wants him. “You’re the only one in the family who hasn't treated me like a monster.”

“And my reward is to be bartered off like a prized stallion?”

Tyrion purses his lips together. “I also need you to be discredited as heir of Casterly Rock.”

“I can relinquish that claim any time,” Jaime tries to calmly point out, tries over and over again, repeating the same old symphony of his rejection of his birthright to all the family members who matter to him. “In fact, I can name you heir of Casterly Rock right this moment.”

Tyrion raises his small hands in surrender, a string of curses and no’s following his colorful refusal. “The Great Council is keen to remind us that you are a precious, overprized war prisoner. Yes, I understand that you have helped in the battle against the dead. But—”

Jaime holds up his gold hand, ready to smack his brother shut if needed be, “Don’t say it. Anything that comes after but is—”

“—utter and complete bullshit, I know,” Tyrion finishes for him, looks forlornly upon the heaven, “Bless Lord Eddard Stark, his dearly departed wife and children.”

Jaime mutters the same prayer under his breath, and a colorfully crafted curse soon after. Honestly, the Starks must really hate him. Even death cannot spare him of their rage. True, he’s down awful, excruciatingly unforgivable sins against the good lord and his family, but he has hoped that maintaining the sacred vow to his equally dead wife and protecting the remaining cubs they’ve left behind can score him a few good points of redemption. Not that he’s expecting titles, or an army, or a celebration for his change of heart.

No.

In fact, all Jaime ever wants is to live in perpetual harmony away from everyone and everything.

Imagine the delight upon learning that his simple fantasy is trampled by the proposition of being married to one their chosen queens of the seven kingdoms. A good and honest man will consider this a compliment.

But not Jaime, Son of Tywin Lannister, still the begrudging heir of Casterly Rock, wise from the political intrigues of palatial conquests, aged by aristocratic manipulation and warring disputes over that silly throne. For Gods sakes, Jaime has sat upon that uncomfortable chair, consequential to the demise of the Mad King—overly decorated, empty, pain-in-the-arse: that’s all the Iron Throne is for him. It brands him the Kingslayer, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Until history decides to rewrite his gallantry in fine inane fripperies—his price for service is to be auctioned like cattle amongst the newly titled Queens of Westeros.

As if he needs to further entrap himself with another power hungry twit.

Tyrion passes him a goblet of wine, which he sneers at in good faith. The last cup the brothers has shared end with a rather precarious note, and he doesn’t want another drunken mishap ruining his sliming chances at plausible romance. His little brother glares at him—rather adoringly, if he shall add—and drinks from the cup in bitter rebuttal.

“It’s a sensible plan,” Tyrion attempts at reason, drinking a mouthful prior to continuing; “I want to be Lord of Casterly Rock. You don’t. The Great Council wants you dead. We don’t. As Lord of Casterly, I need an heir. I don’t want to get married.”

“Third time’s a charm,” Jaime says encouragingly, desperately.

“Third time’s a habit. You should know.” This time it is Jaime’s turn to glare at his brother and drink from the infernal cup of bitterness. “Apologies,” Tyrion says halfheartedly, refilling the cup to the rim for emphasis. “Going back. I don’t want to get married. You can, and your future child as Prince Consort of Wherever the Fuck is Faraway will be entitled as my heir.”

“Nobody wants to marry a kingslayer.”

Tyrion looks at him exasperatingly, the same uninhibited disdain bequeathed by men of below qualifications in terms of looks, prestige and pedigree. If only men can see pass the golden deception of fame and glory to uncover the rust tarnishing just below the surface…

He glowers back, having nothing better to do.

Tyrion snorts. “Fine. Bearing in mind marrying the Kingslayer is worst possible fate for any woman of wisdom, a newly coronated queen would definitely consider marrying a valuable political hostage.”

The sigh he sings is long and suffering. That’s all Jaime Lannister has always been. A valuable political hostage: for Aegon Targaryen against his father, for the Starks against the Lannisters, for the North against the Crown, and now, for the queens to clash upon. His father must be squealing with joy from the heavens knowing what an entitled bitch his precious heir has been reduced to.

“You might consider some of the prospects up to your standard,” Tyrion dares to make light of his misery and misfortunes, beginning with the worst of the candidates possible. “Lady Sansa Stark.”

Jaime sniggers in contempt. “Old enough to be my daughter. Cranky enough to be my mother. Oddly enough, once my good sister.”

“Wouldn’t really fare well with the masses.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Lady Talla Tarly?”

“Too sweet.”

“Lady Yara Greyjoy.”

“Too salty.”

“Princess Arianne Martell, then?”

“Too Dornish.”

On a good day, Tyrion will have snickered at half of the jokes against womanhood. But it’s either here nor there, the pressure of building a new form of government weighs down upon him like an anchor to reality. With a sigh that is both long and suffering, he appraises, “Well, the only options you have left are Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, mother of all who hates thee, and Lady Brienne of Tarth. Pardon me, Ser Brienne of Tarth.”

“Brienne?” Jaime takes a moment to repeat the words, alcohol already buzzing his brain for much needed attention.

“She was offered to be Queen of Storms. Hasn’t accepted though. Unless…” Tyrion lets his voice trail off, lets his thoughts hung in the air a weightless echo; grants his brother a knowing smile.

There are things that a knowing smile can do. If one is to smile all too knowingly, a man of similar sensibility is bound to catch on. Solemnly, Jaime takes a sip on the cup of bitterness, savors the sweet tangy taste that soon followed. Nodding his head, he gets to his feet and out of the room.

“I want a golden cub with blue eyes,” he hears his brother call for him.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading. As always, feedback is highly appreciated! ♡ Have an awesome week, fam!


	3. A Clash of Queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm sets the pieces in motion, brews tension under false brevity of the unknown. In which, everything is happening and not happening at the same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the feminist movement begins. I admit this concept is a tad bit rad in a medieval era, but hey, this realm has dragons, and giants, and armies of ice zombies. A few women in the throne couldn’t hurt? :D Amiright? *nervous laughter* 
> 
> This chapter is a set up for our Queens, the changes they’d be making, and how those will affect each and everyone in the coming chapters. It’s gonna be slow. Warning: there is a miscarriage, and Arya being an actual assassin.
> 
> And also, yes, the thing about Gendry (Still-ain’t-a-Baratheon) Waters. That’s gonna play a part in Daenerys’ and Brienne’s queenly claims, and eventually, it will propel Arya and Jaime in the final conflict once I get a hang of it. *crosses fingers* 
> 
> Many thanks to the people who subscribed, commented, reviewed to this fic. You guys are angels. You do not know how much you make me happy. Seven blessings and big hug, fam! :* 
> 
> Well, enough with the ramblings, onwards with the story.

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

Every action has its equal opposite reaction.

Had their father, Lord Eddard Stark, chosen to remain untarnished by the politics of the Crown, he would have lived a long, happy mortality in the safety of the North with his head and his family unsevered.

Had their mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, not freed Jaime Lannister during his captivity, their army would have a powerful bargaining chip against the Lannister Forces, and thus, would have a greater chance of defeating the lions of Rock.

Had their brother, Robert Stark, King of the North and Trident, chosen to remain faithful to his betrothal to the Freys and levelheaded in dealing with the Kastarks, their allegiances would be unbroken and the North would have ascended as victors of the War of the Five Kings.

These set of events unleashed a chain reaction that shaped their nation’s history as they know it.

One will think that there will be consequences following the defeat of the Night King.

Yet here she stands, the Queen in the North, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. On her right, her beloved brother, Jon Snow, the Prince that Was Promise, who have ended the Long Night with a burning smite of his sword, lover to the Great Targaryen Queen. To her left, Arya Stark, the Little Wolf, who defeated a fire-breathing dragon in the momentous night, thus earning the title Dragonslayer. Before them, still in perpetual slumber, the tangible remains of the once Brandon Stark, known as the Three Eyed Raven.

A fortnight has passed following their victory, and yet, the sun has risen without fail, ice continues to fall in hail and snow, a larger portion of the vassals pledge fealty to the new sovereign, and the last of the Starks live as they breathe.

Somewhere in the heavens, their dearly beloved family is laughing at the grand fortune bequeathed upon their remaining brethren.

“You should know,” Sansa begins, “that the good lords of the North will not take it lightly that their chosen King has forsaken his crown for not one, but two queens.”

Jon remains untroubled, takes the heat of his sisters words with thoughtful indifference, before breaking into a full-grown grimace. “The good lords of the North are as good as dead.”

“And you’ve always wanted to be queen,” adds Arya dryly.

Its times like these that are unbearable for her. Years have passed, their roads diverged, seasons altered, yet here they gather, the lonely children of House Stark, ever the pack of little wolves who had to fight the wilderness in order to survive, their desires unchanged as the landscapes of their home.

The fighting never stops.

No matter how many lives have been laid to rest, how much blood has spilled in the land, the fighting rages on like an endless dance, and by the grace of old gods and new, they come up victorious.

Almost like a fairy tale.

“I never really know what it means,” Sansa admits, “to be queen. I was just a silly girl who thought of love and dresses and bearing sons for useless kings. But now…”

Now she can’t even fathom to fall in love. Now she can’t even fathom bringing a child to this world.

“You’re good at it,” Jon encourages, as he will always do, “You’re a better ruler than any of us here.”

That lifts her mood in corners, that noble attempt of lighthearted persuasion combined with familial loyalty—a wolf by any other clothing all the way through. How foolish of them to throw him away to the Wall. What did her father always say?

The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.

In the end, the lone wolf that once died has risen to defeat Death itself; and the surviving pack is tasked by fate to be separated once more.

“We need to talk about Gendry.”

Jon heaves, nose flaring. Arya’s eyebrow quirks, mouth set in a thin line.

“What about Gendry?” her little sister asks—the weight of her questions looms in the frostbitten air, an inquiry about the fairly obvious, a threat for the consequences that draws near.

Jon embraces the subject with tact, angling his head towards their smaller sister, of complete disregard with the sinister energy that settled about. “Dany wants him shipped to Essos,” he says, mild-mannered, discreet, the voice a father uses to calm down a troublesome child—the voice of the Lord of the Land, “Gendry will lead the blacksmiths to Meereen and educate the former slaves on weapon craftsmanship.”

“Meereen will be our weapon base?” Sansa peruses.

Both of her siblings eyes at her in shock to which she dignifies with a shrug. Not really that hard to put two and two together, Sansa thinks. With the installation of the new Queens, the Great Council will need time to regain stability over the land. While the Crown is preoccupied with their mild coup-de-grace, they will need to forge arms discreetly.

What better area of choice than on the other side of the Narrow Sea?

She must admit, though they have their differences in just about everything, Daenerys Targaryen knows how to treat her so-called allies well.

“Will you be coming with the blacksmiths?” Sansa asks Arya. She could swear her sister grow pink, gaze firmly fixed upon their sleeping brother instead. Meanwhile, Jon throws look of pure exasperation. “You’ve always wanted to explore the world,” is what Sansa meant.

Arya hums noncommittally, still boring holes on the fine furs and pelts.

Not that the Queen in the North is unaware of the escapades between a certain wolf and a certain blacksmith. She has nothing against the union, truth be told. Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark have always wanted to join houses since time immemorial.

But the issue is still at large. No one can know about Gendry’s true identity, especially not the Targaryen Queen if they know what’s best for them. If she is to find out that the very nuance to her claim is under her nose all this time…  

Sansa can already feel the burning fire, the scent of ash in thick blankets of smoke, the desperation from the innocents and otherwise scorched—the North will be inhabitable; the Starks good as forgotten. Their only justification will have to be Gendry being a bastard born, and thus, barely an inconvenience if left illegitimate.

They have to carry this secret to the grave if they must.

For the sake of the pack.

Jon clears his throat. “White Harbor will be our point of entry while the Stormlands have yet to be stabilized. The North will be able to provide the other kingdoms with supplies, artillery, and protection coming from East if they choose to ally themselves with us.”

At least they don’t have to resort to cutting down trees, Sansa contemplates, trade being an issue now that the North is independent, and consequently, isolated. It can work.

They have to make it work.

“The Free Folks will be relocated at Last Hearth,” Sansa feels the need to inform her brother, which significantly relieves the tension out of him. They have spoken quite a few times about the free folk’s fate following their allegiance to House Stark and their subsequent victory over the army of the dead. The free folk have always wanted a place beyond the other side of the wall, Jon tells her all the time, a place untouched by the harsh brutality of endless winter.

Last Hearth, being the northernmost castle, will be a good home for them. Also, with the House of Umber effectively extinct, they will need proficient vassals protecting from any danger coming from the Land Beyond the Wall. The Free Folk will refuse to bow down to Sansa by principle, but she hopes they will remain loyal and true in keeping the North safe, to be their first line of defense against the enemies to the north.

“And Brienne has been released from her vows?” Arya punctuates with a question; having previously released the lady knight from her end of the vow moments after word of her ascension has been spread.

Sansa, in turn, sighs, begrudgingly nods her head in acquiesce. Much as she wants Brienne to remain at her side, the Northern Lords will not take it kindly having a queen and a lady commander on the highest positions of the hierarchy, especially if the lady commander hailed from land outside of their precious North.

No.

Brienne has a much better chance of acquiring allegiance in the Stormlands.

Ser Brienne did offer to leave Podrick Payne in her behalf, of which, she politely declines. Brienne will need all the help she can get in reestablishing the Stormlands. Besides, Sansa has already a Lord Commander in mind. Sandor Clegane has pledged loyalty upon her great house. His reputation can come with a benefit.

“Lord Glover will be Master of War, though,” Sansa announces regrettably, earning her a look of pure disgust from her brother and sister.

“Lord Glover?” Jon mutters the word like the plague.

“They haven’t done shit during the Long Night,” Arya barks, ready to claw at the very idea of seating an imbecile in Sansa’s council.

Sansa smirks at that. “They will be doing all the shit that need be done in order to thwart our enemies to the south.”

“You mean live bait?” Arya sounds genuinely surprised her sister is capable of such duality.

“Exactly.”

Jon seems just about unsettled, not entirely in acceptance of exploiting people to their advantage, but Sansa doesn’t think much to it. What has to be done must be done. In addition, House Glover is one of the few untouched vassals from the war. Their numbers must be put into great use. Her brother can spout all poetries on honor and justice all he wants, but honor and justice has left their father’s head in a spike, their mother’s throat slashed, and their brother brutally mutilated.

The pack must survive.  

“Seems we have everything figured out,” Jon remarks.

“Not unless…” Sansa leaves the thought unfinished, vowing to never speak, nor even conjure in mind, the terrible secret that might destroy their little fabricated peace. Beside her, Arya adjusts her grip on Needle, sliding a foreboding look upon Jon.

Jon closes his eyes, a furrow marring his forehead as he glowers at Sansa for the tiny incursion. Sansa returns the sentiments with the steely resistance of her own, reminding Jon of who he is and where his loyalty should lay. They are the last of the Starks—all four of them. They must stay together and never let the world tear them apart once more.

“Daenerys is with child,” is Jon’s carefully crafted counterpoint, “ _my_ child.”

Oh.

“That doesn’t make her less of a threat,” she manages outright, isn’t the very least apologetic for sounding every bit as sinister and calculating to the rather unusual complication Jon has once again introduced to this household. “She is a dragon.”

“The baby makes her part of my family, part of this family.”

Sansa fights the urge to hug him then, to comfort him, to pound reason into his head until he starts thinking things through. But of course, Jon will fight tooth and nail for this chance of a family. Ever since he’s born, he’s never been treated as one of the Starks, never been treated as one of any family. Only Arya welcome him with open arms.

Only Arya has loved him as a true brother.

“It’s good that I am called the _Dragonslayer_ , then,” Arya embellishes her warning with a hint of steel, pulling Catspaw from its sheath. Sansa holds her breath—the blade reflecting a different kind of light in her grey eyes.

Sansa knows that light. It’s the same light that danced in the eyes of Joffrey Baratheon as he relishes the sight of her newly beheaded father. It’s the same light that flashed before Ramsey Bolton exercised his right to their marriage bed every night. It’s the same light that frequent her nightmares, haunt her to wakefulness each morning—the same light that flickered in Theon Greyjoy’s eyes as he recounted every mutilating torture he had to endure to live another day. 

The Light of a Stranger.

“Congratulations on the baby.” Without so much as a smile, Arya resettles the Valyrian blade back to its sheath, settles to a comfortable silence as if the very picture of a very loving good sister.

Jon bares his fangs. “Arya.”

“I won’t hurt the baby,” Arya says quickly, “I will never hurt the cub. I only kill monsters.”

Sansa takes hold of her brother’s hand, warns her sister in glare; doesn’t stop the urge to shudder. They are the last of the Starks. They must stay together. They cannot turn against one another. 

The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.

* * *

In the most inconspicuous of days, Varys will never give a care of the Tarlys. A self-righteous lot made from old blood of the lands if the late Lord Randyll Tarly is any indication—meanest dog that ever lived; a traditionalist as one will claim; a chauvinist to a fair few. The Tarlys have the best army in all of the Reach, and Queen Daenerys see to it they best be burn to ashes with their self-righteous, traditional, chauvinistic point of reasoning intact.

The daughter he has left behind is a lady raised with high expectations, who, by the cunning wit of her fox-mother, blossomed into a forest sprite—effervescent, dainty as a summer gale, meek as the sprawling green meadows, a bit simple-minded given her upbringing but her temperament is generally golden—a precarious ray of sunlight of sorts that must be protected at all cost.

The son prides himself a scholar, draws his power from pen than might, hunts his preys in a battle of wit and brains, carries his books and tomes and burdens like badges of honor. For a warrior father, Samwell Tarly is nothing but a disgrace.

But the Master of Whispers is neither a warrior nor a father. He cares not for honor and glory nor justice.

He is a survivor.

And if the Dragon Queen is to ascend as the Queen of Seven Kingdoms, he needs to be sowing seeds of their victory in inconspicuous soils the soonest.

“Congratulations on your sister’s enthronement, My Lord.”

The trip to Horn Hill is long and winding, and dreary. In these days, all that Varys has to do is sit idly by or travel about. A bit of a small talk won’t hurt. A bit of a proposition. The little imp has already gotten a head start in the orchestration of the biggest invasion of their history.

It’s about time an old spider pulls on his strings. 

Samwell Tarly looks up from his book a bit perturbed, a bit disoriented, a bit chagrined—most likely from the unwelcome interruption from this undivided attention to the Annexes of Westeros Laws requires. A trifle read, for sure. Laws have long been crafted, bended, and broken in service of men and power.

“Talla has yet to accept, still.” His pudgy nose crinkles in distaste, and the lack of gratitude foretelling. His large gaze settles back to the old pages, body angling closer to the windowsill of their humble carriage.

Varys frowns at that, but doesn’t probe further. He knows where the aversion stems from: the untimely demise of Randyll and Dickon Tarly in the flames of their queen. Lord Dickon arguably will have made a fine Lord Paramount of the Reach, but the maggots have already feasted over his charcoaled remnants to even bother otherwise, and no amount of familial devotion can rouse him from the grave.

He may have fought bravely, and have kept their solemn vows to the Crown, but bravery and solemnity do not equate to safety and survival.

A Samwell Tarly should know.

Why else choose quill over sword?

“I hear you are an apprentice in the Citadel,” Varys’ roundabout tactic in advertising the fair obvious. The Dragon Queen will be needing control over Old Town and its maesters following her rise to power, and so the need to employ a suitable candidate demands resolution.

If he’s half as interested, Varys can pull a few strings in order to make their future council a bit more favorable.

But the good scholar just nods absent-mindedly, continuing on thumbing his book of laws without hiatus. Engrossed. Entranced. Addicted. 

“What are you reading about?” Varys asks, curious now than annoyed.

“Legitimacy and claims.” As soon as the word escapes his lips, Samwell Tarly shifts uncomfortably in his seat, chews on his bottom lip, eyeing onto his direction imploringly.

Varys raises an eyebrow, smiles all too sagely.

Which illegitimate and which claim, he dares to ask, the one that is hidden in the forgery or the one taken to the grave? The stag in guise of a bull or the dragon in guise of wolf?

It’s presumptuous for people to believe he has no idea over bastards born out of the confines of a proper marriage bed. Blood is thicker than snows and waters. But the truth is useless garbage at this point of the game, an inconvenience. And at the end of the day, it is not knowledge that is power.

Timing is power—a proper place, a proper time.

When the pieces have all gathered, the truth unleashed, the reckoning shall spare no one. By that time, hopefully, the people will no longer care whose bloody corpse sits on the Iron Throne.

* * *

Princess Arianne Nymeros Martell trusts herself as an excellent judge of character.

Having been born under an estranged love affair and a flag of truce between two warring nations, her ideals on politics and people are weighed in between compensations and costs. People do not strive, do not achieve, do not work if the compensation does not exceed the cost. Similarly, people in authority will not relinquish said authority if a higher sense of function—a grander purpose—is beyond their clutches.

Truth be told, she has come home to sever Dorne from the shackles of the Iron Throne, having been on the receiving end of its destructive nature—the death of her family, her aunt and her children first, then her uncle, then father and brother being the greatest penalties their great nation has to live upon. The political instability following the Sand Snakes’ Rebellion, throwing chaos from the high castles of Sunspear to the sandy peninsulas bordering the Sunset Sea is another.

She has promised to personally see to justice those who have wronged her family and her nation.

Suffice to say, when the missive containing to a proposal of ensuring independence upon her war-stricken land on the provision of her ascension prove to be quite the opportunity she’s waiting to seize. The coincidences are so on point, so perfectly timed, that they beg to be questioned for compensations and costs.

A Great Council of Queens under a flag of sorority, leading their sovereign nations to progress and prosperity by virtue of harmony in perpetuity.

It’s all good—too good, actually—to be true.

“Does anyone like a slice of lemon cake?” Lady Talla Tarly entreats, plays the part of the good natured host to the t.

Innocence personified. Refined. Potentially harmless. Arianne hears Lady Talla’s only been offered the position as Queen of the Reach simply because her only living brother has been pledged to the Citadel and is on his way to be Maester. The Lady of Hornhill may seem like an innocent little dove, but as her family crest brandishes, she is a hunter. As the Queen of the Reach, her position of power lies on the fertility of her lands and her people.

A huntress who does not know how to use her weapons.

“Yes, I would like a slice, thank you very much.” Lady Sansa Stark smiles crudely, her blank face a striking canvas of hidden motives—ensures that Lady Talla is busy cutting another slice before passing the cake to her right, eyes warily at the piece of decadent dessert offered to her station.

Cautious. Righteously Reserved. Lady Sansa Stark prides herself an enigmatic glacier, seemingly surpassable to the naked eye but the danger lies underneath the surface. Her position as a true born Stark has been instrumental in their reclaim of Winterfell. Words whisper her proficiency in governing the entirety of the North in her brother’s behalf in echoing billows, and the great lengths she ensured in order to secure the Northern Independence.

A wolf whose bite is as effective as its bark.

Wordlessly, a knight in blue armor takes a sample of the cake in Sansa’s stead, chews a forkful before finally, guaranteeing that the desert is not laced, mumbles a word of gratitude to the Lady of the Reach.

Ah… the infamous Ser Brienne of Tarth—a lady touched by both the Warrior and the Maiden. Rumor has it that she has beaten the Hound in singular combat, is the sole reason why the infamous Jaime Lannister rode armless to the North; a perfidious storm who has pledged from one camp to another in order to gain providence over her land of birth.

A legend in the making.

Unpolished nails drum insistently over the smooth mahogany, the cadence of brewing battle, soldiers marching to a senseless death in fine, steady, erratic rhythms. If Lady Yara Greyjoy is bored of their little gathering, she didn’t bother to hide. Her small face is thin from previous captivity, her pointy nose gives a more hawk-like appearance, but the smile she beams is big and wicked.

Like a tide receding to the ocean, bracing to return to shore in full vengeance.

“We should talk about business.” Daenerys sets her tea in a resounding clink, soft enough to not damage the cup, loud enough as if passing a sentence. The little huntress jump out of her skin like a tiny mouse. The she-wolf put on airs, a defiant glint set upon the mask she wears. The lady knight flips her fork like a weapon, ready for the onslaught. The roguish pirate sits a tad bit straighter than necessary.

Arianne settles languidly upon her seat, takes a sip on her cup of wine.

She knows exactly what the Targaryen Queen wants. She, like her ancestors before her, wants the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms by siege and conquest. Only this time, siege and conquest involves dissolving centuries-old tradition, splintering the seven kingdoms into factions, so that, when the time is ripe, when the Crown has lost its influence over its neighbors, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen can rain upon fire and blood over their nations and claim what is rightfully hers.

It will be easy, like a rattle snake to an enchanting melody. One might think that the rattle snake is enthralled beyond comprehension until it bites the hand of its captor.

She presses her lips upon the rim of cup, hides her teeth and smile from prying eyes, muses how long before the venom spreads into the system and leaves everyone paralyzed.

“Oh, I thought we were here to talk about dresses,” Lady Talla speaks dejectedly, “and crowns.”

Arianne almost chokes upon her drink. Collectively, the sorority of unlikely queens shares a common pause. 

“In the Reach, dresses are fine works of art,” Talla continues, unabashed despite the unspoken blanket of absurdity that drafted in, “Dresses clothe women in grace and splendor. It arms them of tradition and culture, and if allowed, can even tell a story.”

She peers, trying to look beyond the promises of harmless chatter, found nothing but sunshiny delight unblemished by the spoils of power. Despite her meager appearance, Lady Talla Tarly has the capability to open the gates of rapture by virtue of her best intentions.

But the best intentions always lead to the best of sins, or so her mother always says. Tittle-tattle is a woman’s war, and if she is to partake in this little clash of queens, she might as well gather enough information as she can, and enjoy herself while she’s at it. 

 Arianne set down her cup finally. “Yes, let’s talk about dresses.”

* * *

Cersei no longer dreams.

Dreams are for the weak. Dreams are for the hopeless, for the spineless. Nothing is more deceitful than the hallucination of a better tomorrow, the hope of a richer, more potent chance waiting upon the delusional.

Once in her maiden days, she fashion herself a princess wed to the most beautiful prince. Her beautiful twin, the ever gallant knight in white cloak, armed to defend her from all who dare harm a threadbare of her golden hair.

But the beautiful prince is a bard who has fallen for a wolf, her beautiful twin chose his white cloak, and she, in retaliation to everyone and everything that ruined her dreams, became a queen.

Dreams are meaningless, as useless are they are priceless.

Nightmares are dependable, as her father and his father before have believed. Nightmares are grounded in reason, crafted from an equal balance of reality and probability. It’s her carefully laid-out nightmares that grant her the seat of power, erupting in emeraldine flares that destroyed faith and insurgence, quieting her people with dread and fear.

_A younger, more beautiful queen…_

The Targaryen Queen thinks she can arise to power by pretending to be a peacemaker, but as soon as the Golden Company raises its banners, she will eventually cling to which that ties her blood in conquest and pillage.

… _more beautiful queen…_

Their little council thinks they can theoretically work as independent nations banded together by harmony, but this wretched land has known the Crown more than it can recall its own history. The land will never band over women.

_…to cast you down_ …

And Jaime. Her poor, pathetic, pitiful Jaime has sold to a cow. Jaime will never forsake her for that beast. No—a smile on her lips, hand on her belly. Jaime has enough reason to return, enough reason to stay. The death of their children might have jarred their love at the seams, but his devotion to her remains planted in the deepest part of her body.

He’ll return.

He has to return. 

… _and take all you hold dear…_

Pain lances, a warm gush of blood soon follows, dripping from between her legs, soiling her silken robe, pooling at her feet like a lake of death. Another sharp pang brings her to her knees, the blood—her blood—coating slender fingers in rivulets of ruby and gore.

The scent of nightmares assails her.

Cersei screams.

* * *

For as long as she remembers, Talla has always been underestimated.

She is never been one of beauty. People vouch for her because of her lineage and of their fear of her father. _Grace, manners, and decorum_ , her father always scolds her. She must learn to be proper in order to be accepted.

Her mother teaches her otherwise.

_Kindness_ , she says, her voice as gentle as the currents of the River Mander. It is kindness that teaches one to be humble, kindness that can shape a future in brilliance, kindness that can break chains of scorn and hatred.

To slay an enemy through smite requires skill, but to slay an enemy through kindness requires art.

Through kindness, their humble nation has risen to be second richest lands of the continent. The reachmen and women’s kindness provide fruit, grain and mead upon the tables of the seven kingdoms. Had the Tyrells been more kind to their adversaries, the Reach won’t have to be torn in disarray.

But the Tyrells are gone, the Reach in ruins, the Crown heedless upon their demise.

Yet through the kindness of the Dragon Queen, they have been spared. As promised, the Unsullied have been sent to tend to their fields and their lands, a sizable defense against the looters plaguing their fertile domain about. In her kindness, they have been granted sovereignty, or if the Reach has yet to take their time, neutrality, for as long as their nation will focus their resources in providing for the rest of the seven kingdoms.

And so, Talla will be kind.

There is only one enemy and its name is indifference, and she will vanquish it through kindness. Smiling her brightest, she tightens her hold on her gift basket and passes a loaf of freshly baked bread into the hands of a foreign soldier.

“Thank you very much for your service today.”

* * *

Lord Selwyn of House Tarth has meant to come sooner but the winter rain summons hails and ice upon cloaks of torrential downpour, the gales of Shipbreaker Bay have proven to be most treacherous that they have to delay voyage until the moon has phased to a crescent and the rain has quieted to a drizzle.

He marches through the archway leading to the Round Hall, through the spiraling hallway labyrinth of the castle interior, passes the ambling guards who stop to salute upon his quickened pace, pauses only upon passage to through the Godswood—muttering a terse prayer of gratitude, before heading on to the enclosed chambers of the Infirmary.

He really ought to reconstruct the general architecture of the castle. Or at least, place the Infirmary someplace nearer to the entrance. Death by traverse is swift and sure for the less fortunate, given their current floor plan.

The _Rains of Castamere_ orchestrates through the drafty walls, filling the empty halls in a foreboding symphony of death and terror.

Selwyn shivers.

“Where is she?” His voice sounds small even to his ears. The medic scrambles to his feet, motions to the large figure that lay prone and bare amongst layers of bedclothes.

He has been briefed about his daughter showing up in the castle grounds, claiming to be the Queen of Storms, bargaining with the storm lords and the marcher lords for their allegiance if she manages to champion over them in singular combat. A treaty is signed, her foes defeated one by one, and at the advent of her victory, an arrow lodges upon her shoulder.

Three nights have passed.

“We have had the poison removed, my Lord. Recovery is underway as soon as her fever breaks,” the medic’s voice is strong but wobbly, from the cold or from the haunting melody, Lord Selwyn is not entirely sure.

Doesn’t entirely care.

He waves the medic out of the room without another word, waits for the wooden door to close in a clink, before he drops to his knees beside the bed. “My child,” his voice breaks, “you’ve returned home.”

Brienne is as beautiful as the day he sent her away. Her sunlit hair is kept short, barely covering her ears, curling at the end in artless tumbles and tangles. Her lips are the color of a pale rose, almost bloodless, not nearly as lifeless, pale and plush and pursed. A pair of unshapened wings draws a tight furrow on her forehead, joins midway above a broken nose, trying to fight off some of the pain, some of the tears. And her eyes—her mother’s eyes—bright, blue, clear as the cerulean skies, brim with unshed tears.

“I took too long,” she mutters weakly, which he hushes down, presses his cold lips against her fevered temple.

He is the one who took too long.

As Lord Paramount of Storm’s End, he has meant to take his rightful seat in the grand castle, gather up their houses and debate amongst the nobles on their potential detachment from the Crownlands.

As a father, he has meant to be reunited with his gallivanting daughter and—if rumors are as turbulent as the weather—a good son.

“I heard you got married,” his lighthearted attempt on all the pressing issues they need to discuss. They have a lot to catch up on.

Her full lips twisted in half a smile, half a grimace. “He caught my blade in his gold hand.”

“How convenient.”

“It was dirty.” Her eyes turn teary once more. “He lost his hand for my sake. I was almost raped and he… His… He’s a good man. An honorable man—”

Lord Selwyn hushes her, pulling a few strands of her unkempt hair back to her head. “—is the one blasting that infernal song through the walls?” He watches his daughter frown for moment, scrunching her nose in deciphering the notes echoing with the winds and storms like a howling tempest, muttering a name in lieu of a curse.

Lord Selwyn decides he likes his new good son already.

They are wedded by the old gods, she tells him, in the godwood of Winterfell; a quiet ceremony in the audience of their closest acquaintances and his good son’s brother. A marriage of convenience, him having a better chance of survival under her protection compared to other more appealing candidates. A wedding bed is yet to be made, though, her ascension to the Stormland’s highest seat in priority. Also, Brienne wants them to pledge another vow, one under the Faith of the Seven with her father in attendance.

He stops himself before he can lift her in his arms for that.

He wishes to tell her that her mother’s a practitioner of the old faith, a servant of the old gods and the friend of the children of the forest, and that their vows pledged before a carved tree is thrice as sacred as that one under a seven-pointed star. He wishes to give his gratitude and his blessing. He wishes to congratulate her on her knighthood, and her acquisition of a Valyrian Steel Sword. He wishes to speak with her more: about her adventures, about her plans, about his future grandchildren, about Tarth, about the horrors that plague in murky shadows behind her bright eyes.

But his daughter is still recovering from her wounds and sleep is a welcoming balm to her weakened state.

Her speech slurs, eyes recede to a dim. He presses another kiss to her forehead, allows exhaustion to lull his daughter to slumber—like she has in her youth, eager to spin her tales upon his arrival, until the night lost its youth and the fire has gone low.

A hard knock disrupts their bubble of solace. Sighing, Lord Selwyn finds the resolve to rise to his feet and open the doorway for the inevitable.

The inevitable comes in a form of a man. He’s tall, reaching just pass Lord Selwyn’s shoulder, lean and broad and harried in a crimson doublet embellished with golden filigree, woolen trousers, and battle boots that have been worn for not more than three sunrises. The lines of a strong jaw is deceptively hidden in bushes of an untrimmed beard, a darker shade from his rich gold head with wisps of silver, a perfectly winged mouth curled in a snarl. His faultlessly arched nose lays an aristocratic prominence on the center of his face, high cheekbones, forehead and all. His cat-green eyes are narrowed, emerald slits thinning in glints, bordered by bags and puffy on the lids.

On an ordinary man, the look would have made him beastly—a lion ready to sack and claw.

This one looks about ready to burst into tears.

On his right is a hand crafted in gold, and in his left, a crossbow.

He eyes dubiously at weapon.

“I was umm…” The huge beast of a man is naught more than a cat who caught its own tongue. “Lord Connington wanted chastising, so I thought it’d fire his arrow straight to his wife in return.”

Lord Selwyn takes the crossbow with placid fingers. “See to my daughter.” Without another word, he throws his good son to the other side of the doorway and closes the door shut.

Marriage of convenience, his arse, Lord Selwyn can feel himself beaming.

Now, he might be needing a much better bargain for the storm and marcher lords, one that involves less mutilation; a month in Tarth, probably, for his daughter and her dearly besotted husband to consummate their marriage. Else, Lord Selwyn of House Tarth, Lord Paramount of Storm’s End, Lord of Evenhall, the Evenstar might just be tempted to fire arrows straight to daughters of insurgent vassals.

But first, he needs to silence that dratted orchestration.

* * *

_The lioness demands the kraken’s seed. She claws at his tentacles nightly, as if she is as eager as he to plant a prince in her belly._

Yara Greyjoy crumples the piece of parchment, already regretting spying on her worthless uncle. They are broken people and a babe isn’t going to fix them. Mournfully, she drinks a healthy gulp of common ale, willing for the waves and tides of alcohol to wash down the cryptic images of senseless fornication from her mind.

As revolting as her demented uncle is, she feels a pang of pity at the sorry lot for having chosen the losing side, until she remembers that arse murdered her father in cold blood, chained her in hopes of submission, and dutifully regrets feeling pity altogether.

She needs a distraction, truthfully. The death of her brother has left her lonesome. Theon would have been a valuable asset to their campaign.

_What is dead may never die_ : the widespread catchphrase of the Drowned God; words the Ironborn, converted or otherwise, live by. People outside their salty shores know of their ironclad principle to see death as a sentence and a warning. 

_But arises again stronger and harder_ , is the other part of the catchphrase, one that is only spoken by the practitioners of faith.

Yara is not one for faith and gods. They are as fickle as the tides of the Sunset Sea and as deceitful if need be.

But truth always hides itself behind the irrational.

Queen Yara might be the renowned ruler of the Salt Throne, but her reign is just as long as the ebb and flow of time and chance. A prince born out of wedlock is a prince by any other name, and will crawl and claim any throne from all lands and seas if given the opportunity.

She cannot replace Daenerys’ justice with incompetence.

Yara hails for the maester. It’s about time she brews her own concoction of revenge.

* * *

The storms reach the shores of Dragonstone. Thunder and lightning rain down in cascades of dark-grey sheets and heavy showers, dancing with billowy gusts and blustery gales, bitter and frozen, summoning the tides and waves to rise up in rhythmic cadence to the march of mayhem and madness. Rain splatters upon glass windows like waterfall, pitter-patter of hailstones a sporadic reminder that this is no ordinary storm.  

Jon has been born and raised in the North, familiar with the course of winds and symphonies of storms, but he’s never been close to the sea or the shores, nor inhabited an island. Below the stone walls and cobblestones, heavy wings echo in retribution, mighty roars of great beasts screeching, manacles shriek with every burst of light and sound from the sky.

They claim this old castle to be the seat to the heir of House Targaryen.

Jon feels just as welcomed here as he is at Winterfell, and just as captive, like the dragons below the dungeons in shackles. He stares pensively at the destruction before his eyes. How can a night of storms and captivity be a perfect mirror of the ruin that is his life?

Daenerys comes up from behind him, closer as much as her stomach will allow her, wraps her small arms over his lean waist. “We will fly the dragons as soon as the storms let up.”

Jon tenses, instantly grabbing her hands to convince himself that she is real, she is safe, the babe is kicking at his back. He and Gendry are no threat for as long as their secrecy is kept. “Tell me about the East.”

Daenerys instantly brightens.

She has been antsy upon their reclusion in Dragonstone. She tries to hide it in smiles, in small talks about the future ahead, about the babe, and the progress they’ve made so far following the independence of the kingdoms.  

They haven’t attacked King’s Landing, no. There won’t be an attack on King’s Landing yet. Their armies will wait out, will wait ‘til the lakes have been unfrozen, ‘til the night have been cut shorter, ‘til the Crown has dried up all the gold paid in service of the Golden Company for a war that is never going to happen.

The waiting is driving her restless, he knows. Daenerys often talks of her swift resolution of the opposition to the East. Westeros does not fall prey over her dragon fire, do not keel over her grace and benevolence. Westeros hides her in old drafty castle, asks for her to occupy her time with her growing belly, and mocks her in the shadows.

In Essos, she is venerated. Mhysa, they call her. In the east, she frees children from slavery and educates the masses. Missandei has been sent back to Meereen to govern in her stead, to see to it that her children are taken care of as she settles trifle clashes in the west.

Sometimes, Jon wishes they can continue this stormy reclusion in Essos, in the midst of people who love and respect her leadership and spirit. They can be exiled together—them and their little babe—in a continent that knows not of their origins, and start fresh.

But the decision to lead is hers and hers alone, just as the decision to stay with her is his and his alone.

Jon will be a fool to take that away from her.

Westeros has already taken so much of Daenerys.

It’s time someone stands up and brings it all back for her.

* * *

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Every review is appreciated! ;* Thank you for reading!


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